


Drink to Remember, Smoke to Forget

by Dufferson



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Harry is a Little Shit, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, I swear, M/M, Time Travel, but gets better, its also the 80s, mainly Louis' pov but Harry has some chapters as well, slowburn, the one where Louis and Harry work at a museum, there will be maybe 30 chapters total
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dufferson/pseuds/Dufferson
Summary: If there were three things Louis Tomlinson loved most in the world, they would be (in this very exact order) his family, the subject of history, and his teaching job at the greatest "living history" museum in the Boston area. However, if there was one thing Louis hated most in the world, it would be his antagonistic co-worker, Harry Styles. And the feeling was mutual. Despite having a shared profession, Louis and Harry could not be any more different. However, when both find themselves transported back in time to the dawn of the Revolutionary war, they have to put aside their differences to find their way back home.Also known as the one where Louis is a history nerd.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	1. Cordially Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> Drink to Rember, Smoke to Forget is a lyric from the song Two Fingers by Jake Bugg (a real banger, which if you're a fan of Louis' music would probably like). 
> 
> This is my first work of fan-fiction. I got the inspiration from my own personal experiences working at a Living History Museum (and also another story I wrote). I tried to be as historically accurate as I could (I did way too much research), but if there are a few inaccuracies please forgive me. I am merely a student of history, nothing more. I am not a certified historian.
> 
> My tiktok is @songbirdsinlove (you can find more Larry content there). I also have a playlist for this work on Spotify (my name is Kaity And).

July 4th, 1988

Louis Tomlinson stood but one of fifty people in the dimness of the summer sunset, shrouded over by towering trees and gloomy clouds, and yet, all eyes were on him. Their disgruntled gazes watched him at the entrance of the clearing, as their bodies slumped in defeat and laughter died on their alcohol scented lips. Their squeals and shouts, which once polluted the wooded area, silenced to a dull shuffle of movement and inaudible panicked whispers. Romantic couples unwound their bodies, slathered in sweat in the summer humidity, and hurriedly partitioned themselves throughout the small area. Cups of "patriotic punch," an unfortunate but effective concoction of their stupidity—equal parts Sam Adams and apple whiskey—hung behind the backs of legs, purposely obscured from Louis' view. A rare few even refused to exhale the smoke of their recent drag. 

"Narc," someone shouted, earning a round of laughter. If Louis had noticed Harry Styles in the crowd, Louis would have presumed it was he, who shouted the insult. 

Louis imagined that what was once a sacred gathering of booze and delinquent behavior, was now his lecture room, a place of order and rules. He could see the look of annoyance on their faces, the sobering of their expressions, even on those who did not work at the museum. Clearly, Louis' reputation preceded him, poisoning the ears of all. He spotted roughly twenty people he did not recognize; students from nearby colleges or friends of those he instructed. Given his notoriety in the college party circuit, Louis presumed most of the people were invited by the laziest of the new employees, Brad Cullinane. Even without Harry by his side, Brad appeared as the hub of the lawless gathering, drawing a substantiated crowd to his attention. Most of those in the group danced collectively to the music, rigidly aware of Louis' presence as they left a foot's length between one another. The music in which they danced blared from a boombox perched atop a large metal keg. If Louis needed any more evidence of their unruly behavior, he would have to look no further than that lawless image. That, and he could smell. The pungent odor of beer and cigarette smoke was so strong; it completely dissipated the natural smell of the forest. 

As for the music, though it allowed for intimate conversations to be held, the blaring American anthems of Bruce Springsteen echoed throughout the area at a thunderous capacity. Those still at the museum, quite a distance away out of the woods, could perhaps also hear the music, but as a hum in their ears. In truth, Louis heard the music the entire trek to the party and presumed it as a warning. It appeared he was not mistaken. 

Brad and the rest of his posse lounged stiffly against the thick tree trunks that surrounded the area, talking amongst themselves. Though they appeared entirely unbothered, their glances towards Louis, told him that they shared the same sentiment towards him like everyone else. They wanted him to leave. And Louis couldn't help but agree.

However, before he could even think about turning around and leaving, unexpectedly, like the scratch of a record, the radio phased into a piercing static, before silencing all together. A chorus of groans and complaints ensued—a rare few even directed at Louis. Despite it being clear that it was the weak radio signal to blame, Louis imagined that some people probably thought it was he who was responsible for the lack of music. Bad vibes or whatever bullshit they went on about. 

"I knew this was a terrible idea," Louis said to his best friend Niall Horan, who stood beside him at the entrance to the clearing. "I just knew it."

Niall sighed, "Come on, Louis, it's not all bad… there are snacks."

"Snacks? What could they possibly have here that the staff manor doesn't?"

Without missing a beat, Niall cast Louis one of his classic "looks," a glare and a roll of his eyes. Niall may have only been a year and a half younger than Louis, but Louis never felt more like Niall's father, than his friend, than that very moment.

"Your parents aren't here to catch you, you know? You can at least try and have fun," Niall stated as he brandished his hands, accentuating every word in which he spoke. "I mean, what they don't know won't kill them, Louis."

 _Clearly, Niall doesn't know my parents all that well_ , Louis thought to himself, yet did not dare to speak aloud. A grimace was all he could muster. 

"And if it's the administration you're worried about, Louis, don't be. I overheard that they're investigating another theft."

"Another?"

Niall nodded in reply, confident in the secret he disclosed to Louis. When it came to gossip, Niall was always confident. Never once had Niall ever wrong about a bit of gossip he had heard, no matter how much Louis had hoped he was. 

Louis drew in a deep breath and averted his gaze to the pine needle covered ground, wondering why he had agreed to come in the first place. Perhaps Niall was too convincing for Louis' good to refuse. But if Louis were to catch one more annoyed expression, one more averted eyes, he would wish for nothing more than for the bonfire—which raged in the middle of the clearing—to swallow him whole and release him of his misery. Niall would have no choice but to be dragged down along with him. Louis would be sure of it. 

Louis turned to Niall to ask when they would leave, but he noticed Niall waving to someone in the distance. Though Louis knew Niall had friends other than himself, such as his college friends Zayn and Liam, rarely had Louis seen Niall actively interact with anyone who worked in the living history department. Niall himself once declared them all to be nothing more than valley girls and jocks, who notoriously put minimal effort into a job they didn't like so that they could be closer to Boston for the summer. There was not one single person Louis thought Niall could smile at in the way he did, at least not in this crowd.

For that exact reason, after only a few seconds of searching, Louis was startled to find Deborah Baxter waving back. 

Deborah, better known as "Deb," stood in a small circle of five, surrounding a dead tree stump that held refreshments and snacks. The group of people Deb conversed with were employees with whom Louis was familiar with, yet never interacted with outside of the classroom. They all worked in one of the more elite divisions of the living history department, known as the guest services crew—or the "stewards," as they were most commonly known. They spent the majority of their workday in the town square's shops and taverns. They were the only employees on the museum's grounds to have air conditioning in the summer season, a privilege everyone envied. Louis himself yearned for the cool air when he was forced out of his lecture room in the Ed. Department and into the summer heat draped in the layers of his costume. 

"I'll be right back," Niall beamed as he adjusted the collar of his striped polo, his gaze never flashing to Louis.

"But Niall—"

"Lou, why don't you maybe go and get us some drinks? I'm sure they'll have something for you," Niall pleaded sweetly, placing his hand gently onto Louis' shoulder before peeling himself away and sauntering over to where Deb stood with a box of sparklers in her hand. "But please try not to spill any on my T-shirt."

Louis sighed, fidgeting a string that hung from the concert t-shirt he was wearing. It was of thin material, fraying at the seams from overuse, and stained with splotches of paint and coffee. Though the band Fleetwood Mac was not one Louis was well acquainted with, as he had only heard their songs a handful of times over the radio, it did not stop Niall from demanding Louis wear the shirt. Niall thought it would help convince the other employees to accept him, as it was the only article of clothing either boy owned that clearly showed Louis' age. Louis chose not to put up a fight. After all, it was comfortable, at least compared to his costume at the museum. That itchy monstrosity of an ensemble made Louis himself love history a little less.

Out of habit, Louis gingerly touched the marks his un-tailored tight trouser had made upon his waist from earlier that day. Though they bore a profound and irritating impression upon his tan skin, their pain was small in comparison to the distress he endured at the hands of his peers at the museum. 

All Louis saw when he looked around the clearing were people who did not respect him nor care to try. He had to remind himself that they were all just a bunch of teenagers, not much younger than himself. He had nothing to fear, especially when he was in control of them in his lecture room. 

However, there in that clearing, with them intoxicated and crowded together like a mob, every fiber in his being wished to do nothing more than reject Niall's pleas and march out of the situation. But Louis knew there would be consequences to pay if he did so. After all the effort it took to bring him there, Niall would never allow him to go so quickly. Thus, with all eyes watching, Louis took the first step and walked out of the wooded entrance towards where the drinks—predominantly alcoholic—were kept. If Louis pretended to participate in the party, to be open to new experiences, Niall would hopefully, out of the kindness of his heart, reward him with the opportunity to leave early and return to the comfort of their shared room. 

Perhaps when he arrived back, he would call up his family upon the dormitory's only phone and wish them a happy Fourth. Though he saw them just the day before, he missed them much. He could not wait until he was with them again next weekend. Besides having work off, the best part of the weekend was when he got to drive home to Great Barrington. But until then, Louis had only to survive the night. 

_Geesh, maybe I am a narc,_ Louis thought to himself—immensely grateful that Niall did not possess the power to read minds. There was not a single doubt in Louis' mind that if Niall _had heard_ his thought, he would not hesitate in calling Louis "dramatic" for thinking he had to "survive" the night. But Louis would not have taken his words back, no matter how dweeby they made him seem. Nope, for as far as Louis was concerned, he was in the right to be miserable. 

And that was even before Louis realized someone was walking behind him. 

"What happened to the music?" the person inquired, his words echoed by the impact of his footsteps coming to a halt on the forest terrain behind Louis. 

Immediately, Louis froze. _Great._

Louis groaned internally, recognizing who spoke through his back was turned. He could practically picture him standing behind Louis, with his fair complexion, tousled curls, and piercing green eyes that demanded his attention. Although Louis would love for nothing more than to pretend he had not heard the person and continue, Louis was apprehensive about ignoring the self-proclaimed king of the museum. Thus, with his back hunched and eyes averted to the ground, Louis swiveled on his heels to face the smiling Harry Styles. 

Though Harry had undergone some physical changes in the last three years, with a few extra pounds of muscle and many haircuts, Louis could not help but view Harry as the same man he saw every day in the "polaroid." 

As per the tradition of the museum, there was one wall in the staff dormitory manor decorated from floor to ceiling in neat rows of Polaroids of every employee ever hired at the museum since its inception. Louis Tomlinson's mortifying photo was on the last row, twenty from the left. He always had to stop himself from peeling the picture off of the wall, leaving nothing but a blank spot in commemoration for himself. The photo contained a candid of his face being squished into a strawberry pie by Harry on his first Fourth of July, three years from the date. In the background of the photo, Harry's smiling tan face could be seen, laughing in pride and glee.

"Hey, Teach," Harry Styles cackled, pushing past Louis with his shoulder as he waltzed into the area. 

Mouth agape, Louis turned himself back towards the clearing, rubbing his shoulder from the collision as he did so. Louis watched on as Harry sauntered through the party, greeting everyone as he moved towards Brad and the others. His friends chanted as he approached, their voices increasing in volume with every step he took. They sounded foolish to Louis, shouting his name as if he were a rock star. But the rest did not see it that way, for, by the time the music began to play once more, the entire crowd was chanting his name. 

The party was officially back on schedule. 


	2. The Party King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never really understood why in every fic, the author made Harry an asshole until I started writing one myself. It is just way too damn fun. Anyway, there won't be all that many chapters told in his POV, but this is one of them.

July 4th, 1988

By the time Harry Styles reached Brad and his posse on the far side of the clearing, the word "hey" had lost all meaning. No longer was it the simple greeting it once was, an introduction between strangers and friends, but Harry's charitable extension to those around him. It was nothing more than a meaningless sound, one he begrudgingly doled out to every face he passed with the flick of his tongue. However, to everyone else at that party, with their bated breath and eyes full of joy, Harry's "hey" was a momentous occasion. Never before had they received such a gift, and they feared they would never again. After all, Harry's greeting was but a rare showcase of his gratitude, a "thanks" to their teenage rebellion for providing him with the most magnificent send-off he could have ever asked for: the annual Fourth of July bash.

Contrary to the delusions of the museum's administration, the annual Fourth of July bash was not the only party held under their "supervision." The party held that evening was but the beginning of more to come, with the rest scattered throughout the remainder of their summer season. There would be countless more parties too frequent, a dozen or so more chances to erase the previous week's boredom and drink without the scrutiny from loving parents. Thus whenever the opportunity presented itself, young adults of near and far retreated into the forest of the museum's grounds, only to return hours later in an altered state. It was their unspoken summer tradition, one that came to an end when all had returned to their normal lives by the middle of August. Save, of course, for Harry Styles, who remained permanently trapped in the world of Colonial Charlestown.

"Where've you been, man? The chicks have been asking for you all night." Brad slurred as Harry approached, absentmindedly waving his cup of beer like that of a flag in the blustering wind. With every jerk of his hand, streams of patriotic punch pooled out from the plastic opening, spilling down the backside of his pale hand to the dirt terrain of the clearing. Having arrived a little later than his usual time of "fashionably late," Harry had never before seen Brad in such a drunken state. However, Harry didn't blame Brad, as he himself had gotten wasted a million times before, especially on his first Fourth of July. Forced out of bed before the crack of dawn and thrown into the embrace of instant sunburns and thousands of visitors, the Fourth of July was hell for recent hires. If Harry could even call Brad that, given the fact that the museum was not just his job for the summer, but his future inheritance. 

Bradford Aldrich Cullinane, the third, was the eldest grandson of Mr. and Mrs. Bradford Cullinane, of  _ the _ Cullinane's of Connecticut. They were of the old-money variety, as Brad liked to boast to anyone willing to listen regularly; the type of people who went sailing, played golf, owned museums as a side hobby, and who's entire male ancestry attended an Ivy League college no matter the circumstances. And though Brad did not have much going for him in life, with average attractiveness and less than average intelligence, he did have the family name, and that was worth more than any tutor or plastic surgeon could fix. Thus, despite being the ugly yuppie dummy that he was, Bradford Cullinane, the third had spent his entire childhood trapezing around the museum and the streets of various luxurious cities as if they were his own personal sandbox. That was, however, until the summer of 1988. As punishment from his father for totaling his brand new car, Brad was forced to work as an employee at the museum for the entire summer, with only Harvard University as his escape come August time. Brad was counting down the days. 

"Had to take care of business," Harry said, purposely nonchalant, as he and Brad clasped hands and slid comfortably into an embrace. He had stupidly hoped nobody had noticed how long he was away, but Harry knew Brad was observant, especially where he was concerned. No one played their part as his loyal subject more than Brad. And why wouldn't he? As everyone was well aware, Brad would never have been able to score women or be as popular as he was without Harry in his presence. Brad owed all of his popularity to Harry, and in return, he did whatever Harry instructed. For that night in particular, as per Harry's request, Brad ignored the fact that as Harry pulled away from his embrace, a mass of metal and leather had disappeared from his back jeans pocket. "Why? Did you miss me?"

"You wish, man. I was enjoying having all the ladies to myself."

"It's your lucky day then," Harry chuckled as he accepted a plastic cup of alcohol from a random partygoer and adjusted his side to lean onto the adjacent tree. Harry took a long swig from his red plastic cup, ignoring the bitter taste the alcoholic mixture left in his mouth. He was never that fond of alcohol in general, dating back to when he first tried a beer at the age of six. It was as if he swallowed a liquidized smoothie of his childhood, seasoned with the taste of old shoes and cardboard boxes. Despite it all, Harry naturally gulped it down with a smile on his face. Nothing could ruin his last night. "I'll make 'em wait."

With nothing else to say, Harry anticipated the pair would slip quietly into the atmosphere of the party, as they had done numerous times before. Brad would leave Harry's side and chat up some random girl, intent on getting her into bed, but would ultimately fail. While Harry, watching from the sidelines, would silently laugh to himself as he drank from his cup and tapped his foot to the music. But much to Harry's surprise, however, the drunken Brad chose not to follow the script Harry had written. With a boisterous laugh to himself, Brad made a move to speak to Harry, determined to share the joke which brimmed from the cusp of his dry lips. But Harry, exhausted from weeks of living as Brad's roommate in the staff manor, no longer cared to hear what Brad had to share. Thus, when Brad finally opened his mouth to speak, expelling an alcoholic perfume as he did so, Harry trained his attention elsewhere. Perhaps, if it were any other day, Harry would have laughed alongside him, making jokes and flirting with girls, but it was not just any other night. It was the Fourth of July, the day he had been preparing for ever since the owner of the museum—Brad's father—left for vacation just a week prior. Harry had more he wanted to accomplish; more he wanted to do with his time than swing back beers like a couple of old farts reliving their past prime. 

After all, Harry  _ was _ in the prime of his life, reigning over the faceless people before him. Though he technically did not possess any sort of genuine authority, despite his connection to Brad, he had something much better, something he relished during his eight years at the museum. 

He had their attention, from all except for one.

Far apart from all the rest on the other side of the clearing, a miserable Louis Tomlinson stood, silently sipping from his plastic cup. Though Louis could have easily integrated himself into one of the many groups around him, particularly the one his best friend Niall participated in, Louis remained isolated.  _ An easy target. _

"I'm going to get myself a beer," Harry said, only half lying as he stalked off in the direction of the booze. Brad shouted after him, some kind of incoherent command, but Harry did not care to listen or turn back around. He merely continued forward, passing everyone by as he did so. 

He passed by people he knew and people he did not, girls he had kissed, and others he wished he had. Though they all had different names and faces, he carried the same sentiment towards them as he did everyone else. They bore no more significance in his life than those found in history books and old fashioned photographs. They were but pointless knowledge, nothing he needed to remember for his future. After all, if everything went according to plan, Harry would never have to see their faces again, including Louis Tomlinson's.

Just as he had seen on the other side of the clearing, Louis stood silently withdrawn from everyone else, distracted by his thoughts as he nibbled on the rim of his plastic cup—predictably filled with some kind of carbonated soda, not alcohol. Louis did not notice Harry as he approached, nor when he stopped beside him. It was not until Harry spoke, did Louis awaken from his thoughts, and turn to face Harry's smirking face. 

"Here, I thought Teach never left his classroom." 

"Yeah, well, Niall convinced me to come," Louis whispered as he turned his attention elsewhere, refusing to meet Harry's curious eyes. He looked at everything but Harry, from the strings hanging off of his T-shirt to the party unfolding around them. Though the clearing was nothing more than a glorified patch of dirt blanketed in beer cans and cigarette butts, to Louis, it was more pleasing to look at than Harry's handsome face. However, Harry couldn't necessarily argue with him. For, just as was to be expected with a clearing party, a fight broke out among the crowd.

Like always with most clearing fights, though they were never on the level of a WWE fight, or even a GLOW fight for that matter, they were still one hell of a show. Even Louis of all people  _ had _ to admit that it was quite entertaining watching two of Brad's private school buddies drunkenly swing at the other, a cup of patriotic punch still in their hands. 

"You having fun?"

"Is that some kind of joke?" Louis responded incredulously, chuckling to himself. 

"So, no?"

"The fact that you even have to ask baffles me."

"My apologies, I didn't realize that it was so dumb of me to think someone could possibly have fun at a _party_ ," Harry spoke, emphasizing the word "party" with a brandish of his hands in the direction of the bonfire. 

"It is, but I forgive your lapse of judgment, Harry," Louis spoke with a sly smile. "I mean it was probably my own stupidity to think you could actually think about anyone other than yourself, or whatever it is you think about. Booze and girls and pranks and what-not."

Harry tried his best to remain visibly unfazed by Louis' words. No way would he let Louis Tomlinson of all people get a reaction out of him. He would surely saw off his own arm before he ever allowed that to happen. 

"Jesus, then, why did Niall even think to bring you here? Tell me, was it drugs? Is he clinically insane? Did he bribe you? Does he secretly hate you too? That's the only explanation I can think of."

Opposed to Harry, who bellowed a hearty laugh as he chugged back what remained in his plastic cup, Louis was unfazed by either the fight before them or Harry's remark. Louis neither laughed nor cried, but instead donned a tight-lipped grimace and silently brushed a hand through his quiff. To a stranger, uninformed of Louis' personality, the short boy could perhaps be regarded as quite handsome, in a plain boy next door sort of way. But that was it. 

"Niall's a great friend," Louis spoke over the rim of his drink. "And he thought it would be good if I attended at least one party before I leave, you know, for good."

_ For good? Wow, this really is my day.  _

Though Louis did not let on much with his emotions, Harry noticed a hint of sadness in his voice as he talked. Clearly, Louis had some sort of pathetic attachment to the museum, as broken and rundown as it was. Louis was by far, unlike anyone Harry had encountered over his eight years at the museum, both in the off-and-on seasons. Most of those in the continuous cycle of employees came and went with ease. They relegated the museum and its forests to nothing more than a listing on their resume, with everything and everyone else forgotten and lost to the void of old age. Of course not everything, not him. Harry was unforgettable, precisely as he intended. Even Louis Tomlinson would have a hard time erasing him and all the cruel things he said from his memory. The fact alone brought a smile to Harry's face. 

"I guess miracles really do exist." 

For the first time since he arrived by her side that night, Louis finally met Harry's gaze with his own. 

To someone else, they may have simply described them as blue, but Harry noticed that they were not as monochrome as one would assume. Upon closer inspection, there were speckles of gold and green in them as well. To his surprise, it was the green in Louis' eyes that gave Harry pause. Not because those speckles were there or because they held a sort of beauty that could only be described in a pretentious poem, but because he had only seen that shade of green once before in his life, a few days earlier. It was not the typical shade one associated with green, like emerald or grass or money. It was the type of green that belonged to a gemstone, one that was rare and precious. Peridot, he believed, was the name of it. Though he could have been mistaken, Harry hadn't thoroughly read the description underneath where it was encased all that closely. All he remembered was how unnaturally out of place it was, a gemstone of green in a ring of a copper brown. It was a shade he would never forget. 

However, as Harry continued to stare into Louis' eyes, the green in his pupils began to fade, leaving in its wake, nothing but pools of blue encased in a glossy surface. A surface that was noticeably more swelled and more bloodshot or more teary than Harry had noticed before. They were also startingly reflective. Harry could easily, and clearly, see the reflection of himself staring back. And although Harry relished in his depiction, a shadowy faceless caricature that towered above, what he saw unnerved and angered him, though he could not explain how or why. 

"Do you know what I think?" Harry asked in all earnestly, though he had no intention to wait and hear Louis' response. Hell, he doubted Louis even had one at all. "I think that you're just running back to mommy and daddy, huh, Teach? Going back to the comfort of being little miss-perfect with your perfect family in God knows where you came from. Some bullshit nuclear family white-picket-fence type place, am I right?"

"What do you care, Harry?"

"I don't, I couldn't care less that you'd be gone," Harry whispered close to Louis' ear before he added, after an extended moment of thinking. "Actually no, that not true, I would care. But only because I would be so happy that you're gone. And I think you know deep down that I would not be the only one. Absolutely no one would miss you." 

Though the music continued to play at its thunderous capacity, one of Poison's newest songs, Harry knew Louis heard what he had said. For, without so much as a comeback or a word in his defense, Louis pushed right past Harry and walked away. Harry would never have expected anything else from him, nor would Louis of him. 

As Harry watched him walk away, with his back hunched and arms crossed over her chest, Harry noticed that he was not the only one. Most of those whom Louis passed, watched his every move, the same as they did with Harry. They probably had eavesdropped on the entire conversation. Harry should not have been surprised. The people of the museum had a habit of eavesdropping, no matter the boundaries. Boredom truly was a killer to morality at a place like this. 

Though he couldn't blame them. With a job as tedious as theirs, especially on the Fourth of July, they needed all the entertainment they could get to maintain their sanity, whether it be from gossip or the occasional prank or a party as big as the one held that night. But whatever it was, Harry was always expected to be at the center of it. It was the reputation he crafted for himself, and it was a strong one. 

If on the following morning, every employee at the museum, including Louis, was questioned by the cops, they would have no choice but to tell them the truth; that Harry acted the same as he always did, exactly as they expected. 

Harry was sure of it. 


	3. The Price to Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so any and all talk of museum work is based on my own experiences working at a museum. So if things don't line up with your experience working in the musuem field, just know that reference. Also, I do not agree with many of Harry's dig at the museum field. He is written to be cynical about his profession.

July 4th, 1988

What little remained of the party's snacks and refreshments, stray remnants of Doritos and Cheese-balls, had grown disgustingly inedible as the night progressed. Their once savory crisp taste was now stale and sodden, laced in the musk of the summer humidity and smoky air. No longer were they the delicious snacks they once were, but scraps for the insects of the forest, scavenging the leftover food like vultures in the desert. 

A wave of nausea lurched in Louis' throat, threatening to spew his morning's breakfast, a few slices of apple pie, all over the forest floor. He could hardly stomach the idea of eating a crumb, let alone acting like the boy who sat at the base of the stump, munching on the cheesy chips without hesitation.

The pale-faced boy sat comfortably on the forest terrain, his back relaxed against the bark of the stump, and his knees pulled close to his chest. His bloodshot eyes lay transfixed to the night sky, unblinkingly observing the few luminous freckles that were visible to their naked eyes—dimmed by the lights of the city in the distance. Had he not been eating the contaminated snacks, Louis would have assumed him to be passed out drunk. After all, from far away, he appeared as more of a corpse than a source of amusing socialization. It was apparent to Louis as to why he was alone, abandoned by his previous company. As Louis had seen during his meandering trek through the party, the rest of Deb's group had dispersed throughout the area, indulging themselves with the alcohol and company provided. Not one person had stuck around to carry on a conversation, polite or otherwise. Not even Niall, whose pale skin and platinum dyed hair was nowhere to be found in the sea of spray-on tans and brown hair. 

Louis couldn't help but think he had more in common with the boy then he had previously imagined. A thought that brought another wave of nausea in Louis' throat and tears in his eyes. 

"Hey… Goose," Louis muttered as he approached him, stifling a miserable laugh as the words left his mouth. Ever since Goose began working at the museum at the beginning of the summer, Louis had always thought Goose was an interesting character of sorts. Even from what little he observed at her mandatory lectures, Goose always seemed a tad more eccentric than what Harry's posse deemed "cool" or "wicked." In fact, just a few days before, in the staff manor's parking lot, Harry was caught by the administration with his fists a little too comfortable with the sides of Goose's face. It was indeed a surprise to Louis that he was even there at the party, rotting away on the edge of the clearing with his lips smeared in cheese dust. "Have you seen Niall?" 

"He went that way, I think," he mumbled, motioning lazily with his head towards the wooded area behind him. Louis glanced up at the forest, eyeing the tree line as if to spot Niall from where he stood. But he couldn't see more than a foot's length into the thick barricade of trees. With the sun all but gone past the horizon of trees, the forest had become like the darkest depths of the sea, a mysterious home for unimaginable secrets. There was no conceivable way Louis would be able to find Niall by herself, especially if he did not know precisely what Goose meant by his words. Louis did not know whether Niall had merely stepped out of the fray to relieve himself in the seclusion of the forest, or if he had left the party for good. All Louis knew was that, if Niall had left, his supposed friend would have a lot more than a hangover screaming at him in the morning. After all, as a permanent name on the list of the uninvited, the route between the clearing and the museum was not one Louis knew well. He needed Niall's guidance to get back home. Thus, crossing his arms over her chest, Louis patiently waited for either Niall or Goose to come to their senses. However, after a few somewhat awkward minutes of standing next to Goose, nothing had changed. Niall had not come back to the clearing, and the boy beside him made no move to elaborate on his remark. Six words were seemingly enough for him.

"Can I borrow your flashlight?" Louis asked as he pointed at the pastel-colored plastic object that lay beside him. Goose only nodded his head, not putting up a fight as Louis reached down to take it. "Thanks."

⚡⚡⚡⚡

At the base of a large white elm, not too far off from where the party resided, Harry's calloused fingers furiously tore into the forest terrain, forcing yet another layer of dirt to settle beneath his fingernails. Perhaps if he were someone like Brad, Harry might have minded the grime, but at that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. After all, he was already quite grubby from work earlier that day, with a thick film of gunpowder, dirt, and sweat coating his fair skin. 

Oh, dear God, how much he hated the fourth. 

Like all the other male staffers at the museum, be they a paid employee or an overworked intern, Harry spent his Fourth of July as a miserable soldier in the museum's rebel militia. Thrust out of bed just after dawn and dressed from head to toe in an itchy secondhand costume, Harry and the rest of the militia spent upwards of nine hours performing for the pesky populous public. They marched, they fired their muskets, posed for photographs with foreign families, and ignored the way the July sun beat down on them like a kid with a magnifying glass. It was hell to Harry, though he was aware it could have been worse. No man in their right mind would ever want to shovel sheep and cow shit for less than four dollars an hour, especially on a day like the Fourth. Though it was never really a matter of choice, those who worked the farm were usually there as punishment by the owner. And as such, Harry could always be found at the Tilden farm. Oh, how he despised how frequently the Cullinanes crossed the line between business and personal—or as they liked to call it, "scheduling with a purpose." After all, hardly anyone was even around in the countryside of the museum to bear witness to the farmers' hard work, especially on the fourth. Nearly every visitor, thousands upon thousands of them, packed themselves within the center of the town village by the time the clock struck noon. No doubt to get their money's worth with all the free Fourth of July themed activities the museum put on. 

Yet another thing about the Fourth that brought a sour taste to Harry's mouth. One of many. 

As drafted in their contracts with the devil, Harry and the rest of the "militia" were forced to trade-off and be tortured every other hour for the entertainment of the general public. They played a game of "base-ball" with kids that were way too young to understand rules, managed a craft table with a line that stretched for miles, participated in an embarrassingly cheesy parade with a pace as slow as molasses that only old people could have enjoyed, and dealt with the dozens of drunk suburban dads who didn't understand why there were "people in weird costumes" around. As if their day wasn't bad enough already with just militia duty. 

Eventually, however, like a miracle from God himself, the clock struck five, and all were free to leave. Station by station, every employee would walk out of the museum's premises to their cars or the staff manor, with a zombie-like expression and a total disregard for all the filth that coated their body. Not a single female stationed in any of the houses appeared to mind the spots of pot black or butter grease on their dresses, and none of the males noticed that their costume breeches or billowy white shirts were now stained a chlorophyll green and dirt brown. They were all too tired and too traumatized to notice, a feeling that would remain until they had a nice refreshing shower or the energy of a party pumping in their veins. The latter of which, predictably, was the chosen solution for most, including Harry. And why would they not? Paired with a couple of drinks or a few hits of a joint, the energy of the party and the all-consuming feeling it gave off was infectious. Except for maybe Louis Tomlinson, the party wiped the miserable expression right off all their faces and replaced it instantaneously with a euphoric smile. 

Even though Harry had left the clearing to—"take a piss" or whatever the hell kind of lie he shouted over his shoulder to Brad when he left—he could still feel the energy of the party just below his surface. He could still taste the beer and the Marlboro cigarettes on his tongue; he could hear the shrieks and squeals of his people ringing in his ears, could feel his heart leap in his chest to the beat of the music, and could still feel the sweat of what's-her-face's back as he held her tightly and danced until neither of them could stand. 

However, to Harry's displeasure, with every fistful of dirt and rocks he unearthed, the sensations of the party began to diminish one by one from his senses and fade into memory. No longer could he feel the pleasure of having all eyes on him or the heat of one's touch, but the coldness of the earth against his fingertips and the faltering of his smile. And even though Harry wished to go back to that clearing, to revel in his being along with the rest, he continued to dig. There was no way he was going to turn back just then. Especially given the fact that after no more than a foot's deep dig into the ground, he finally felt the touch of a heavy satin bag in his hand. The sweet touch of victory, a feeling that almost made up for his absence at the party. Almost.

Harry sighed and made the move to stash the bag in his free back jean pocket, but was stopped mid-action by the snapping of a twig not too far off in the distance. Though the sound was subtle, so subtle perhaps that it could have been nothing at all, Harry wasn't taking any chances. 

"Goose?" Harry called out into the forest, his voice only slightly more powerful than the music that blared from the clearing a distance away. "Goose? Is that you?"

It could have been anyone, a random partygoer who strayed from the path or a couple retreating into seclusion for an intimate moment. Still, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that whoever it was that was out there, was watching him. And, if Harry had to pick someone out of line up to be his stalker, Goose would be at the very top of the list. 

"Come on, man, that shit ain't funny," Harry chuckled as he spoke, feigning nonchalance despite the paranoia that ran through his veins. He wanted to follow through with his plan but was nervous that whoever was out there might stop him from doing so. He had to know precisely who was out there before he risked exposure. Thus, ever so slowly, Harry reached down to the ground and grabbed the flashlight he had used as a light source while he was digging. "You're a dweeb; you know that? Perving on a guy as he takes a leak."

Immediately once the words left his lips, the sound came once more, but much closer than before. The person, or thing, could be no more than ten feet in front of him. Thus, with one flick of his wrist, Harry pointed his flashlight in the direction of the sound and discovered the source of the sound. It was his worst nightmare. 

Standing beside a tree not too far off, Louis Tomlinson stood, with a look of such bewilderment, Harry wondered if he had just seen a ghost. Harry sighed and quickly moved the velvet bag as best he could away from Louis' line of sight. Though a part of him doubted Louis could see much of anything at all, with the sun all but gone past the horizon of trees and no flashlight in his hand, he wasn't taking any chances. 

"What are you doing here, Teach?"

Like a deer caught in the headlights, or more accurately, a noid caught in the beam of his flashlight, Louis timidly stammered out, "I was trying to―" 

"Leave?"

"... Find Niall," Louis continued in a whisper. Though Louis stood roughly ten feet from where Harry stood, and the music from the party could still be heard, Harry could still hear every word in which Louis spoke. "And I lost my flashlight along the way."

"He's probably out there somewhere," Harry replied with a laugh, moving to where Louis stood with his flashlight still pointed in his direction. "Taking a break from you."

Though Louis' face instantly contorted into a look of pain at Harry's words, with a wrinkled nose and furrowed brows, Harry sensed that there was more at play on his emotions than just Harry's usual mockery. But, if Harry was honest with himself, he didn't care enough to stick around and ask about it.

"Have a nice life, Teach," Harry said as he pushed past him, roughly bumping into Louis' shoulder as he went. Though as Harry did, he felt something slip from his grasp and drop with a hard thud onto the rocky terrain of the forest floor. Instantly, Harry's heart and stomach plummeted along with it. 

No matter how much he prayed it had been his flashlight he had dropped, he knew he was not that lucky. Harry had dropped his velvet bag and all of its valuable contents: a slew of metal coins that had exploded from the bag's drawstring top upon impact with the hard forest ground. 

Within a blink of his eye, Harry's whole world slowed down to a funeral's pace. All he could do was stand and stare as Louis reached down and picked up one of the coins, the biggest of the bunch. Instantly, Harry knew which one it was he held in her hand, a large copper coin inlaid with a green gemstone in the center. And to his grief, Harry knew Louis also recognized it the moment he picked it up. 

"This is the 1773 Virginia Halfpenny, Harry."

"Look, Teach...whatever you're thinking, it's not like that," Harry plainly stated in the most confident voice he could muster, trying to feign a sense of composure as he reached out and tried to grab hold of the coin in Louis' grasp. But Louis didn't buy his act and kept a firm grip on the coin. Louis was too smart for his charm, yet another aspect he despised about him. Even when it would fit Louis best just to shut his mouth and look the other way, he always needed to be the smartest person in the room. 

"Teach, don't be dumb about this; just give me the coin."

In what little Harry could see in the growing darkness—his flashlight was still stupidly pointed down to their feet—he saw a faint smirk cross Louis' face and a weird look in his eyes Harry could not find the words to describe. Was it determination? Pride? Sadness? Anger? A mix of all? Harry couldn't tell, only that it felt like a rare emotion he had just unlocked within Louis. All he knew was that Louis was stubborn enough not to let go of that coin without a fight, no matter how much he strained in their game of tug-of-war. 

But to the pair's surprise, the game did not last long. For, just as Harry began to get the upper hand, with Louis' small and sweaty fingers losing traction on the coin, a bolt of lightning struck the coin and sent both Harry and Louis' unconscious bodies to collapse onto the hard forest floor. 


	4. Cause and Effect

????????????

Somewhere not too far off from the edge of civilization, in a summer-dried forest, the only sound that could be heard were the screams of Harry Styles. Screams so vile, so thunderous, the very thoughts that ran through his mind were silenced by the sound. He could hardly even remember his name, let alone process the pain he was in. To Harry, it was as if he had somehow, by work of magic, transformed into a laboratory frog, helpless and left for dead on a dissection table. It felt as if every single one of his limbs was bound to the ground by thick phantom needles, and his guts and innards were poked and prodded at by a giant invisible being. 

Tears fell from Harry's eyes, their salty streams pooling into his mouth as he twitched and screamed with each new phantom pull. It was much too large a pain, one Harry had never experienced before in his life. And though he wished for nothing more than to be knocked unconscious, Harry's eyes and brain refused to succumb to rest. He was forced instead to look at the damage his body was in. 

Harry's arm, usually a shade of olive, rested limply beside his head, charred and bloody from the tips of his fingers down to the elbow. It was as if a candle had dripped its entire contents of red wax all over his skin, with dirt and dried leaves coated upon it.

Harry wanted to call for help, call for anyone, but he was suffering too much to command his lips to form any other sound than that of a cat's shriek. He couldn't even compel himself to raise his head and body off of the ground to look around for someone, anyone. Try after try, Harry strained his muscles to move, while salty sweat slithered down his face, grunts escaped his throat, and blood welled from newfound bite marks on his bottom lip. But it was no use. After so many failures and torturous shocks of pain from trying to lift his body, Harry could take no more and admitted defeat. Turning his head from side to side, Harry was hopeful he would see something, anything.

That's when he saw it.

In as little as he could see in the darkness of the woods, Harry could just make out the fallen body of a man not too far away. No, not just any man. It was the body of Louis Tomlinson. 

"Teach," Harry stuttered through gritted teeth, seething blood and spit with each attempt of his name. "Teach."

Louis did not respond, but remained stiff and still on the leaf-covered ground before him. Harry could not even tell if Louis was breathing. All he could tell in the dimness of the rising sun was the annoying fact that Louis appeared to suffer less than he, with his tan skin unmarred with streaks of blood or scars. Even with all the pain and torture he felt, Harry mustered enough energy to roll his eyes. If Harry were honest, seeing Louis on that forest floor, undamaged and seemingly okay, made Harry hate him a little more. And, though it was not his direct intention, focusing his mind on how much he despised Louis actually numbed the pain he felt. At least for a couple of seconds. 

"Somebody help me," Harry begged, his lips quivering uncontrollably. "Please, somebody, help me."

Harry groaned, and not as a result of the pain. There was no use for his words; No one was around to hear him. Given that he couldn't hear the sounds of music or drunken squeals in the distance, Harry knew that everyone else had already left. There was no Brad, no what' s-her-face, no Goose, and not any of his party guests around to help. 

_ I'm all alone.  _

⚡⚡⚡⚡

It was early, just in the wake of a pink sunrise when Harry opened his eyes for what felt like the first time in centuries. He could hardly even open them at all, with globs of crust and "sleep," coating his eyelash line like an adhesive. He had to vigorously rub at his eyes for minutes on end after he awoke before he could even begin to see his wooded surroundings or the dreadful condition his body was in. Although Harry no longer felt physically in pain, save for a killer headache that encompassed the entirety of his brain, his body sure looked like it was. 

As he had seen earlier, his right arm was an absolute disaster. There was no doubt there would be a scar, yet another addition to his collection. It would be right up there with the thick white scar on his calf, a souvenir from when he ran from the Popos eight years prior and cut himself up real bad while trying to climb a chain-link fence. Or the shiny pink scar on the palm of his hand, a reminder to his younger self to never again make a kraft dinner while his mother was at church. Or the—

Harry's thoughts were silenced by the sudden, and revolting sound of someone retching only a short distance away. Before that moment, Harry had thought he was alone. He hadn't even remembered Louis had been there—a fact he increasingly wished was still the case. 

Consumed with sickness, Louis rested rigidly on his hands and knees, with his body and head thankfully turned in the opposite direction of Harry. 

"Seriously, Teach?" 

"It's the… blood," Louis spit out between heaves with a grave voice, not daring to look in Harry's direction while he addressed him. "The blood… I can't."

With a dramatic flourish of his hands, Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. He had always known Louis was a wimp, but never did he think he was so much of a wimp to be disgusted by even the sight of blood. Sure, it was a lot of blood, coating not only his arm but also the front of his Levi shorts and white Polo, but still. Harry couldn't understand how anyone could, in their day and age, get nauseous at something so insignificant as blood. 

_ What is he a child? _

"Louis, I know you're sick and all, but we can't just stay here in the middle of the goddamn woods," Harry grumbled as he rose to stand, only stopping once as he did so, on account of his head. "So, just wrap this all up, and let's go."

"Please, Harry, not until you cover that up."

"Really, Teach? What in God's name am I supposed to cover this with? It's not like there's a 24-hour drug store somewhere in these woods."

"Please, Harry, please," Louis moaned. "Just wrap it with your shirt or something." 

Harry couldn't help but laugh out of exasperation. 

Sure, bandaging his arm with his shirt was an option he could take, but it wasn't his only one. Without a care in the world, he could just as easily leave Louis in those damn woods to rot. After all, it wasn't his problem if Louis didn't know his way back to the museum, nor was it his responsibility to help. 

Harry couldn't help but smile at the thought of Louis being the helpless one for once, but just as he was about to put one foot in front of the other and leave him there, Harry had an epiphany from above. For as much fun as it would be to strand Louis there with no knowledge on how to get back, he knew it would only come back to bite him in the ass later. It wouldn't matter if there were no evidence or if it was Louis' word against his, Harry knew deep down they'd believe every word Louis would say. So even if he managed to get himself halfway across the world by the time Louis opened his big mouth, the Cullinanes and the police would be knocking on his door within minutes. And any chance of freedom he had acquired by then would be lost. 

"Fine, but you can't say I never did anything nice for you."

"Do you know the way back?" Louis sputtered out as he bashfully wiped away any remnants of vomit that had clung to his dry lips.

Harry mocked Louis with a laugh. "You really think I'm that dumb, huh?"   


⚡⚡⚡⚡

As Louis and Harry wandered through the woods, they walked in step and in silence. Neither one wished to disturb the serenity of their walk  _ and _ their focus on navigating their way back. Louis had at first paid attention to the directions Harry had occasionally stammered out—"Uh, I think we just keep going, and we'll hit a tree that looks like it has breasts and then we'll be close"—but unfortunately, his mind eventually wandered elsewhere. Louis was left to hope that Harry was paying attention instead. Which, if he was honest, was highly unlikely. 

"Weren't we only like ten minutes deep into the forest?" Louis asked after they passed the same tree for the third time. Despite his lack of concentration, he was well aware of their predicament. They had wandered the woods for what felt like hours and had not come across any visible exit. 

"I don't know, Teach," Harry grumbled, fidgeting with his makeshift arm bandage. "But if you're so smart, why don't you lead the way?"

"Believe me if I knew the way back," Louis murmured beneath his breath. "We would be there by now."

"Oh, what was that? You don't know the way back? Well, then Teach, why don't you just shut up and let me be the expert for once," Harry grunted, his eyes scanning the trees as he walked. "Let's just continue straight. There ought to be an exit somewhere."

Louis nodded, not wishing to disagree with their only option.

Louis and Harry continued in silence. All that could be heard were the songs of the birds echoed through the trees, the rustle of warm summer breeze, the small rodent creatures that scurried noisily across the woods' leafy terrain, and every now and again, a distant sound of gunfire. Louis and Harry tried to ignore it as best as they could, writing it off as the musket demonstrations back at the museum. 

It was not until another hour passed, did Harry break their long period of silence by asking, "Do you think they'll have a search party sent out for us?"

"What?" Louis sputtered out as he swiftly turned and cocked his head towards Harry. 

"I mean, do you think, if we get lost, people will care that we were missing?" he stated casually, shrugging his shoulders, eyes trained forward.

"I guess so. I mean, they should, right?" Louis replied as he continued with their trek, not noticing until he had walked a couple of feet away that Harry had stopped trudging alongside him. 

"What's the matter?"

Harry replied only by raising his pointer finger to his lips and motioning Louis to come closer with his other hand. Though Louis thought him to be strange and dramatic, he followed Harry's demands, remaining quiet as he walked back towards where Harry stood. 

"I thought I heard something," he whispered, eyes peeled wide and trained on the surrounding area. 

Louis turned his head from side to side, fearful of finding yet another sight within those woods that would shake him to his core.

"Are you sure? I mean just last week I read that there's an overpopulation of squirrels in this area," Louis spoke, his voice resolute and throaty. He could no doubt hear the disbelief in his voice—his unwillingness to let on that he was afraid. "I'm sure it's just a squirrel."

"And I'm  _ sure _ I heard something that wasn't a damned squirrel," Harry said in an aggravated tone. "It sounded like people, like footsteps."

"Then it's probably just people coming to look for us. Like I told you, they would."

"You don't know that, Teach. You don't know everything," Harry grumbled, though he did not bother to look in his direction as he spoke. His eyes were too preoccupied, frantically scanning the forest before them. "It could be the police." 

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Harry made a move to respond, but the sound of footsteps in the adjacent area silenced whatever words he wished to speak. Whatever wicked insult he had planned for Louis, would just have to wait till they were free from the woods and the presence of whoever lurked in its shadows. 

"Shit," Harry whispered. "Okay, on the count of three, we are going to run. Do you hear me? On the count of three."

Ever so hesitantly, Louis nodded his head. 

"Okay... one."

_ Pause _

"Two"

_ Pause _

"Three."

At the exact moment that Harry formed the word "three" into Louis' ear, he clasped hard onto Louis' left hand and dragged him off into the right section of the woods at full speed. 

Perhaps if Harry's life were an action movie, they could have gotten away, but unfortunately for Harry, he was no Harrison Ford. With all the injuries sustained to his arm and legs, he wasn't as fast as he used to be when he was a kid running around the streets of San Francisco. And to be fair, Louis wasn't any better, even without an excuse. Thus, after no more than a couple of yards into their "run," Louis and Harry were thwarted by multiple pairs of arms, eagerly catching them in their clutches.

"We've got ya now, dearies," a strange voice spoke against Harry's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "Could hear ya from miles away. You couldn't hide from us even if you tried."

"Excuse me, gentlemen, there must be some kind of mistake," Harry could hear Louis breathlessly plead as he struggled in the stranger's grasp. " _ I  _ have done nothing wrong. It must be him you are looking for, you don't have to restrain me as well." 

"Mistaken, he says," a strange voice spat with a laugh, tightening his hold on Harry's neck. "There's no mistake here, darling. We've got ya, and we intend to keep it that way."


	5. The Accounts of Travellers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know everything is moving rather slowly so far, but I have to set everything up. So please bear with me. It's all about the journey, not the destination. Embrace the slow-burn!

?????? 

"We're here," one of the strange male voices shouted as he forcefully removed the rag covering Louis' eyes. 

Although Louis did not know exactly where "here" was, the first thing he noticed about it was the smell, the omnipresent stench of rich tobacco, manure, fish, and wood fire smoke. It overwhelmed him, like a punch to the nose. Already before he could even open his eyes, Louis knew that whatever landscape greeted him was one he had never before met. Not even at the museum, a place that seemed to try and challenge his sense of smell every day he clocked in—Louis still hadn't gotten over the scent of rotten eggs since the tea cake incident the week prior. 

With a groan, Louis furiously blinked his eyes, trying desperately to wake himself up and focus his eyes. But the clearer his vision got, the more disoriented he was. In the light of the moon, all Louis could see was a sea of white canvas tents, miles of them, set up side by side in neat, orderly rows like tiny little dunes in an Egyptian desert. 

From where he stood, at what appeared to be the entrance of the camp, Louis could see smoke arise from the tents, as well as an exorbitant amount of chatter. Clearly, the tents before him were inhabited, but he was unsure of by whom. He would have guessed them to be reenactors, but from his knowledge, they were not scheduled to set up camp until the end of the month. And as far as Louis was aware, it had been July Fourth just yesterday. 

"What's going on?" 

Louis had not expected a reply, having whispered it to no one in particular, but to his surprise, he got one anyway. One of their captors formed a tight grip on his forearm and pulled him forward, towards the sea of tents. And, from what Louis saw in the corner of his eye, the other captor had followed suit, grabbing hold of Harry's ear and dragging him forward like a mother and her misbehaving child. 

Having been blindfold since the moment of capture, Louis had not seen their captors until that very moment. They appeared to sport immaculate red coats, tan breeches, hard, dour expressions, and a black ribbon tying back their long plaited ponytails. Louis would have assumed them to be the actors who played the Redcoats at the museum, but the bruise forming on his forearm from his captor's tight grip diminished those ignorant thoughts quickly. But even yet, no matter how real it all felt, Louis could not conceive of another explanation for what was happening to him, none. All Louis was left to think was that everything was just a trick of the mind, a residual effect of some kind of drug he unknowingly consumed at the party. It had to have been. Harry had to have spiked his soda. 

But despite it all, real or not real, Louis couldn't shake the feeling that he was in some sort of danger. He didn't know if it was the pain his captor inflicted that made him feel that way or what, but all of a sudden, Louis couldn't help but want to demonstrate what he had learned at the self-defense class his parents signed him up for before moving to Boston. But unfortunately, even with all the knowledge in his head, Louis knew he had no chance at an escape with force. With his arms bruised and suffering, the back of his neck constrained, and his legs sore after hours of walking, his knowledge was useless. 

_ Great.  _

With all hope lost, Louis distracted himself by looking up at the millions of stars above him. It was like something Louis had read about in books or the National Geographic but had never personally seen himself. Having lived in Boston for the last couple of years, Louis was used to having no desire to look up, if only not to disappoint himself. In the city, there were hardly any stars, just the fluorescents of the skyscrapers and the occasional airplane. But here, there was no interference, only the sky as it was meant to be seen. 

Louis could have looked at the sky all night if he had the option, but after many minutes of trekking through the muddy pathways of the camp, they finally reached their destination: a single large tent set away from all the rest. 

At the sight of it, the captor who had detained Louis released him from his hold and moved to the door flaps of the tent. There, with an utmost soldier-like demeanor, Louis' captor cleared his throat and said, "Major Cowell, permission to enter?"

"Pray, what is this regard?" a voice demanded from inside the tent. 

"Major Cowell, if I may speak so frankly, Captain Tork and I found something that may be of your interest, sir."

"Come in."

And with those two simple words, both Louis and Harry were thrust past the canvas flaps of the tent and thrown down onto its earthen floor. Landing side by side on the cold hard ground, it was not until that moment that Louis was able to look at Harry thoroughly since they were taken. He looked rough, worse than Louis expected, with large red bruises accentuating his somber expression.

At the sight of his face, a sick feeling stirred in Louis' stomach, for he no longer felt confident he was still in the museum's reconstruction of Colonial Charlestown. There were no people he recognized, no tourists out and about, and no quaint and folksy colonial atmosphere: only strangers and unfamiliar surroundings.

The tent they were in was virtually unfurnished, with only a lone wooden desk inhabited by a well-dressed man in the direct center of it. Accompanying the man at the desk were two soldiers positioned on either side of him and an older gentleman standing hunched in front of the desk, his back towards Louis and Harry. The man who occupied the seat behind the desk, no older than fifty, oozed in the confidence of high military status; Louis presumed that he was the major her captor had addressed. He wore the classic red coat of a British infantryman, with the lining, waistcoat, facings, and cuffs in red braid trims, a white vest and breeches, gold epaulets, a red sash on his waist, black boots, and a black cravat that tied back his long white hair in a braid. The young men positioned behind him wore practically the same, except their uniforms lacked some of the fancier embellishments they major was adorned. Their only accessories were the tricorne hat and a bayonet.

The older gentleman standing in front of the desk, however, wore an outfit vastly unique compared to the stuffy artillery uniforms around him. He wore knee-breeches, a cutaway jacket of blue velvet with a white lining, and an intricate design of gold embroidery. The jacket had a fashionable high neck, no collar, and tail embroidery. His shirt was white with a front frill and wide ruffles at the wrist. In addition, he sported a white vest and cravat, which tied his graying hair back. He clearly had money or at least the appearance of it. 

"Zounds, what is this pomposity?" the man behind the desk sputtered out in an accent Louis was not familiar with. "Can you not see this sort of manner is not appropriate. I am in a meeting with Mr. Abrahams."

"Forgive us Major Cowell, but we found these two lurking in the woods over at Charlestown. We thought to report them straight to you, sir.," one of their captors, presumably Captain Tork, sneered behind them. 

Everyone inside the tent grew quiet, leaving only the sound of the melodic chirps of crickets outside as their soundtrack. It was as if everyone held their breath in anticipation for the major's response, well everyone except Louis and Harry, of course. They grew silent because of one simple fact; they had no clue where the hell they were or what the hell was going on. 

Thankfully, however, they were not left in silence for too long. After a slightly dull moment passed, Major Cowell spoke aloud in a stern voice, "Aye, but first, why may I ask, were you in Charlestown?"

"We went hunting, Sir. Some of the folks' round here said it was best up in Charlestown."

"Interesting," the major said while shuffling through his papers, his voice dwindled and uninterested. "And when you found them, Captain, were they already naked? Or were you so simple-minded to have perverse fun with them on the route from Charlestown?"

_ Naked? _

Both Louis and Harry, in unison, looked down at their bodies. Though their clothes had undoubtedly taken a beating from the events of the night before, including Harry's loss of a shirt on his chest, Louis would certainly not describe them as "naked." Perhaps, "inappropriately dressed" would have better described them. 

"They were like that when we found them, sir." 

The exchange between the major and their captor continued for minutes, about them, Louis supposed. He was only able to register a few words among their lengthy conversation, one term in particular that made Louis recoil with a grunt of disgust. It was a knee-jerk reaction; one Louis wished he could take back the moment the sound left his mouth. For, at the sound of his objection, the older gentleman—called Mr. Abrahams by the major—turned his attention to where Louis and Harry lay for the first time since they entered. 

Mr. Abrahams was a strange seeming fellow, with a kindly sort of face, like a grandfather or one of those wrinkled apple dolls Louis used to make when he was a child. He was all wrinkles and smiles, a fact that Louis, for some reason, did not inherently trust. He just had a feeling there was more hidden beneath his pearly-white grin, but he did not know why. 

"What are you implying, Captain?" Major Cowell shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. Louis flinched at the sound and quickly moved his attention away from Mr. Abrahams and onto the discussion before them. 

"All I am saying is that we should be watchful of their presence, sir.," Captain Tork stated, his voice becoming firm.

"And what makes you so sure?" the major rebuffed. 

"I believe their unprincipled actions speak for themselves, sir."

With an exasperated sigh, the major stated, through clenched teeth, "Pray, what are their names?"

A brief moment of hesitation dawned upon the officer before, in military fashion, said, "I have yet to ask them, sir."

"If I cannot even trust you to inquire about their names, how am I to trust you to handle the rest of this meeting?" the major said while progressively sitting straighter in his chair. "You may go."

As the Captain said his dues and left the church, the major stood up, his eyes onto Harry's crumpled body, and asked, "What is your name, boy? And don't be backward with me."

"Harry," he groaned, his head briefly lifting so his eyes could meet the Major's, "Harry Styles."

"Ah, quite an interesting name," the major spoke with an air of satisfaction before he swiveled onto Louis. "And you?" 

In a whisper, Louis gave the major the answer he requested. 

The major grunted in response. 

"Sorry Mr. Abrahams, our discussion on taxes will have to wait until tomorrow. I will have to deal with this at the moment."

Mr. Abrahams looked once again at Louis and Harry before turning back to the major to reply, "It is of trifling importance to me, but I must request that I ask a question before I take my leave."

"Whatever it is you need, Mr. Abrahams, I am at your service."

To the surprise of all in the room, instead of asking the major a question surrounding a specific business or any question at all, Mr. Abrahams swiveled around to Louis and Harry and asked them, slow and clear, "Pray, good men, do you by chance have a place to rest your head for the night?"

Louis and Harry stupidly shook their heads from side to side, stunned by the question.

"Aye, well, Major Cowell, why do we not sweep this matter under the rug and permit me to take these two back with me. They could stay at my manor," Mr. Abrahams replied with a soft chuckle. "As you know, it has gotten quite lonely there since the end of the war."

Louis and Harry eyed one another, both unsure as to what exactly they were hearing. 

"Are you quite certain about this decision, Mr. Abrahams?" the major questioned, eyeing where they both lay on the ground. 

"As positive as I am about anything," Mr. Abrahams' countered with a curt laugh.

Ages passed before Major Cowell opened his mouth to reply, but when he did, all he could find within himself to respond was, "It is your bed, do with it what you will."

"It was a delight doing business with you, Major Cowell," Mr. Abrahams bellowed with a slight chuckle and a clap of his hands. 

As Mr. Abrahams shook hands with the major and turned to go, he stopped himself mid-step, turned back, and pointed at one of the soldiers stationed behind the major and said, "Oh, Captain Kelley, do be so kind and escort these two to the manor and show them to some spare room in the east wing. I am expected to be at Mr. Leecock's."

"Aye, Sir." the captain replied. 

When Mr. Abrahams finally walked past Louis and Harry's limp bodies on the ground, he eyed them both a little longer before leaving for good. 

Though he did everything with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, all that Mr. Abrahams did, propelled Louis further into a state of confusion and fear. Without having said a single word to the man, Louis felt that he had somehow sealed his fate, but he did not know as to what exactly it entailed. His only hope was that he would never find out and would soon instead wake up from this nightmare, safe and sound in his bed back at the museum's staff manor. 

"Help them up!" Captain Kelley shouted at the officers behind them, moving to be in front of the Major and his desk.

At his words, two large calloused hands grabbed Louis roughly by the elbows, thrusting his weak body into a standing position. Louis swayed, where he stood, too mentally and physically unstable to entertain the idea of standing.

"Bring them outside," the captain ordered once again, opening the door for them, into the brisk summer night. The two rough hands grabbed Louis' elbows once again, stabilizing him where he stood and began to lead him outside, behind the captain and beside Harry and his holder. Louis could tell, even in the dimness of the night, that Harry was biting his tongue, trying not to scream out in pain at the man's fierce grip on his wounded arm. 

Thankfully for Harry, however, when they reached the entrance of the camp, Louis and Harry were dismissed of their captors and left to follow Captain Kelley by themselves. Seizing this opportunity of newfound freedom, Louis and Harry moved to be side by side and slowed down to walk a safe distance behind the captain.

"Thanks for that by the way, back there, with all that "It must be him you are looking for" shit," Harry huffed with a groan. "Nice, real nice. And after I wrapped my arm for you, no less."

"Hey, you can't seriously hold that against me, Harry. I didn't know what was going on. For all I knew, they were cops."

"What the hell is even going on?" Harry whispered viciously, his eyes scanning their surroundings and the passing crowds of soldiers. 

"Like I know anything?"

"Typical Teach, you choose now of all times to not know anything," Harry huffed. "That's perfect, great."

"It's not my fault," Louis whispered. "How could I possibly know what is happening?"

"I don't know, Teach. I don't even know what to think," Harry retorted with a snort as their eyes briefly met. "I don't know if this is all a dream, or a sick prank, or a result of time travel, or what. I have no clue."

"Is all of the above an answer?"

Harry did not respond, just shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes drift to their surroundings—or, that is, what  _ little _ they could see of it in the darkness. Guided down the winding paths of wherever the hell they were by only a dim lantern and the unspoken intuition of the Captain, all they could make out through their squinted eyes were the curious faces of passing strangers and the looming presence of shadowy brick buildings on both sides of the dirt road. Had it not been for the lack of noise or the roller coaster feeling in his stomach, Louis would have thought he was still in Boston. But that didn't feel right. Not anymore. 

And from what little Louis could see of Harry beside him, Louis knew that Harry must have come to the same conclusion as he. He looked like he wanted to hurl with every step they took. And he didn't blame him. 

For nearly an hour, Louis and Harry continued in silence and with an ache in their stomachs before, without even realizing it, they found themselves standing at a shoreline. A small wooden boat was docked five feet before them on the sand; the tall Captain Kelley stood stiffly beside it.

"Pray, happy to go to your new home?" the Captain asked, in a rather faint Irish accent and a broad smile as he motioned with his lantern free hand to the boat. 


	6. The Quartering of Mr. Tomlinson and Mr. Styles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far probably the shortest chapter that will ever appear in this work. I felt I needed to include it, but I didn't want to tack it onto the end of chapter 5 cause it was already running a little long. So enjoy this short chapter while you can!

??????

Louis knew the manor like a second home. He knew every nook and cranny, every squeaky floor panel, and every broken dent in the crown molding. It was a haven to Louis, despite it being rundown and in desperate need of repairs. In all the nearly three hundred days he had spent as an employee at the museum, Louis could always count on it to comfort him after a long, laborious day of work. 

However, as he stood at the entrance of the manor, he did not feel comforted to be there—quite the opposite. Despite the eerie resemblance, the New England Colonial manor owned by Mr. Abrahams was not the same as the one he spent three years inhabiting, nor the neglected government building it was before the museum acquired it for a whopping twenty-five cents. It was almost as if it were a foreign film dubbed in English; though it may have looked roughly identical, it all felt wrong and disjointed. The furniture was different, the walls were covered with wallpaper instead of paint, there were rich hardwood floors instead of an ugly shag carpet, and the embellishments and the portraits strung about were one's Louis had never seen before. 

All that he saw on Captain Kelley's tour of the manor baffled him, but no more so than at the end, when they were personally escorted to their rooms. 

As Louis climbed up the grand staircase to the second floor, Louis did not know exactly what awaited him behind closed doors, but in his mind's eye, he knew it would not be the same as the room he grew to love at the museum. And, to his mind's avail, he was right. When the solid wooden door to Harry's room swung open in a grand revelation, Louis saw nothing of the personalized room he and Niall spent most of their days. The sight sent a shiver down Louis' back.

In the center of the decent-sized room was a bed fit for a king, a Hepplewhite field bed adorned with a netted canopy and a quilt linen bedspread. The bed itself nearly put the room to shame, which was proven quite adequate upon further inspection. The walls were decorated in an old English wallpaper pattern, and the floor was equally decorated, but instead with an early English needlepoint rug. For furniture, there sat a bedside table with a lone candlestick, a wooden chair in the corner, and on the opposite side, a table with a seemingly cleaned chamber pot resting atop it. A mirror and a small painting hung loosely on the walls, as well. 

"This shall be your room, Mr. Styles," the captain said, pointing at Harry. "Rest easy. I will make sure that a doctor is sent to you in the morning."

Harry did not say much of anything in response, just a quick goodnight before he entered his room and closed the creaky door behind him. 

"And if you will just follow me, Mr. Tomlinson."

Though Louis wished more than anything to stay behind and speak with Harry, having been barred from communication during the entire boat ride to the manor, Louis obediently followed the captain down the hall to a plain wooden door.

"My room, I presume?" Louis mumbled tiredly as he stood and watched as the Captain struggled to open the door, no doubt jammed from the summer humidity. 

"Aye, if I can get it open, it is," Captain Kelley said with a laugh in his voice as he pushed stray wisps of golden hair out of his pale blue eyes. The wind must have blown them loose from the long ponytail he had tied down his back with a thin black ribbon. 

Though it was not just his hair that the elements seemed to have tampered with, the Captain's appearance as a whole was in absolute disarray. Or at least, in as much disarray as a British soldier was allowed. With his cravat hung loosely around his neck and his uniform wrinkled and stained with dirt and grass, it was apparent to the naked eye that the Captain had had quite a hard day since he awoke some hours ago. Yet even despite all that, the Captain's face showed no sign of wrongdoings. With a slight blush on the pale of his face—no doubt a result of his Irish roots—and a twinkle in his eye, the Captain's smile shone brightly. He was unmistakably handsome, in a rugged and humble sort of way. Not in the same way someone like Harry was handsome, but handsome all the same. 

"As I said, this is to be your room, Mister," Captain Kelley said once he managed to work the door open with a few swift kicks with the back of his heel.

"Thank you, Captain Kelley," Louis whispered as he grabbed hold of the brass doorknob and moved to enter the room. 

"Goodnight to you," the captain whispered back. "If you shall need me, my apartment is downstairs to the right of Mr. Abrahams's study. I will stay the night, but I will return to the commons by the morning."

With not much else to say, Louis simply nodded in response to the captain, before stepping into his room and closing the door on the captain's retreating form. 

Just like Harry's, the room held the same little amount of dust-covered furniture; a rug, a mirror, a small table, a chair, a clean chamber pot, and a bed. However, unlike Harry's, his bed was far more extravagant, and an odd trunk rested at its end. In what little moonlight that shone in from the room's only window, Louis could just about see that his bed was a mahogany four-post with a red linen quilt bedspread and a lace canopy. The trunk as well appeared to be made from mahogany and bound in metal drop handles. From Louis' knowledge of 18th-century furniture, the top dome of the trunk was most likely covered in horse leather.

But none of that mattered to Louis at the moment. All he could bring himself to think about was the same question that had run through his mind ever since he stepped foot in that damned clearing:  _ How would he explain all this to his parents? _

To Louis' disappointment, he did not know how to answer. And thus, for minutes after entering the room, Louis simply stood and stared at nothing, his eyes on the verge of tears.


	7. The Doctor is In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating as much as I can. I already have a majority of the chapters pre-written so don't worry! This is just an introduction to a side-character. Louis isn't present but he is mentioned/thought of. This is just more to show Harry's character and who he is. You learn a little more about him (his backstory).

Harry Styles had seen a doctor only once before in his life, not counting the ones on General Hospital—the Soap Opera his mother used to religiously watch when he was a child—but he had enough experience to know that the man standing before him did not look the part. With an awkward, lanky stature and an innocent look to him, the young man couldn't have been more than a day older than Harry, and he was only twenty-two years of age. 

"Are you really, my doctor?" Harry jeered with a smile, as he watched the young man unpack his leather case of vials onto the small table beside his bed. When Mr. Abrahams had awoken Harry just an hour earlier and notified him once more that a doctor would come to visit, this was not exactly what Harry was expecting. Not only was he a great deal younger than Dr. Sullivan—the one doctor Harry had ever seen in the flesh—the young man had no visual identifiers that he was a doctor at all. He had no stethoscope, no scalpel, no clipboard, no suit and tie, and absolutely no long white coat. All he had was an ancient-looking leather case and an outfit that looked only a step up in quality from what Harry wore back at the museum. 

_ Who is this poser? _ Harry thought to himself. 

"I'm afraid Dr. Holyoke could not be here, Mr. Styles," the young man said in a much richer and fuller voice than Harry expected, as he cleared his throat and rigidly straightened his figure until it was perfectly postured. As he stood before Harry, the young doctor reminded Harry of a statuesque bird, like one of the herons or emus Harry used to see in the Nation Geographics they regularly kept in the staff break room. "He sent me in his absence. I am his pupil, Dr. Warren." 

_ Warren,  _ Harry, reiterated in his head. The name sounded familiar, though he couldn't quite place why precisely that was. 

"Too good to see me, huh? I've heard that before," Harry moaned with a laugh as the young man, or as he called himself, Dr. Warren sat down and began to examine his injured arm. Harry found it hilarious to watch him as he did so, knitting his brows in concentration as if he knew what he was doing. To Harry, Dr. Warren looked less like a real doctor and more like a kid, playing dress-up and make-believe with his father's medicine bag. Harry hoped that at least Dr. Holyoke would be different, if only for future reference. "I'm just surprised he passed up on whatever Mr. Abrahams was going to pay. He seems rich enough."

"I assure you it had nothing at all to do with your character, Mr. Styles. Though I beg of you to not defile Dr. Holeyoke's with your foul assumptions." Dr. Warren explicitly articulated in a demanding manner, not looking at Harry as he spoke. He focused all of his attention on Harry's arm, looking for the best possible way he could remove the makeshift bandage Harry had haphazardly wrapped around it without causing any more injury. "And as for Mr. Abrahams' payment, well, that is certainly not any of your concern."

If he were able, Harry would have crossed his arms and puffed his chest at Dr. Warren's response. But unfortunately, as Dr. Warren continued to remind, he needed to keep still. Thus, all Harry was allowed to do in response was to roll his eyes and say, "So how old are you anyway?"

"Is that necessary to ask of me, sir?" Dr. Warren said in the same manner as before, though seemingly detached from their conversation as he ever so gently removed the makeshift bandage from Harry's arm. 

Though Harry liked to think he had a higher pain tolerance than most, removing the bandage from his arm was just as Dr. Warren had warned, it hurt like holy hell. The only way to possibly describe it would be to equate it to removing a regular band-aid, but times a thousand. Harry could hardly stand it, clenching his fists, biting his lip, and glaring at Dr. Warren as a much-needed distraction. 

Compared to the brightness of the sun that spilled through the window and the vibrancy of the blue wallpaper around them, Dr. Warren looked drab in comparison. With mousy brown hair, fair porcelain skin, and kindly grey eyes, Dr. Warren had a bland sort of look to him. He was no soap opera star, that was for sure. He wasn't particularly unattractive, but nothing about the doctor was particularly striking, not even his disposition. He didn't even appear all that happy, with a permanent line for a mouth and a furrow between his brows. The doctor had a very dishwater appearance, which was much unlike Louis, who obnoxiously always radiated sunshine, even when he was cross with Harry. Scratch that,  _ especially _ when he was cross with Harry—which was more often than not. No matter what Harry said or did, Louis would somehow scrunch his nose and squint his blue eyes and crack his face into a bright and wicked grin to deliver some kind of comeback. Usually, it was a bad comeback, but Harry was never really paying enough attention anyway to be hurt. He was always too distracted to be wounded. But not right now. "I don't know; it could help… you know, with the pain. Distract me and all."

To Harry's displeasure, Dr. Warren did not offer any sort of reply, aside from the occasional grunt or incoherent medical mumble-jumble under his breath. He made no move to further the conversation, and so, subjected Harry to sit in silence as he painfully removed the bandage, inch by inch. Harry had even begun to wonder whether Dr. Warren would ever speak again until, sometime later as he washed Harry's wound with water, he muttered out, "I'll be twenty by the end of the month, Mr. Styles, but do not be mistaken, I have lived more years than I look." 

Though he would never admit it, the truth of Dr. Warren's age hurt more than removing that bandage ever did. 

_ Nineteen.  _

What did Harry even have to show for himself when he was nineteen years old? Certainly, not a doctorate or whatever kind of license doctors got when they graduated. Hell, even at the age of twenty- two, he didn't have much to his name. As far as he was aware, all he had was a high school diploma—a rather lousy reward after weeks of night classes at the local high school—a criminal record, and a permanent residence at the museum's staff manor. Other than that, anything else he had acquired for himself, a velvet bag filled with antiques or the admiration of his peers, was forever lost somewhere in the woods outside the museum.

" Mr. Styles, are you all right? You have a rather pained expression on your face. Is it your arm that's bothering you?"

"No, it's not my arm. I mean, yeah, it is, but…" Harry mumbled as he looked away from the nineteen-year-old doctor and crossed his uninjured arm across his bare chest, trying to cover as much of himself as he could. He did not like just how exposed he felt beneath the penetrating gaze of Dr. Warren. The thought alone made the hairs of Harry's arms stand up on their ends and shivers race up and down his spine. "I just don't get why you're even allowed to be here instead of your babysitter, Dr. What' s-his-name or whatever. I mean, how good of a doctor can you be if you're only nineteen?"

Though Dr. Warren was hardly animated before Harry gave voice to his thoughts, Harry could instantly sense a change in the young doctor's demeanor. Under Harry's gaze, Dr. Warren became as rigid as stone, frozen in place where he sat. So frozen in fact that for half a second there, Harry thought perhaps that someone had somehow stopped time altogether or used a remote controller to pause all of Dr. Warren's movements. And considering Harry's current predicament, it wasn't all that foolish of an assumption to make. Although in the end, none of it mattered, for, within a minute or so, the madness of it all quickly dissipated. Acting almost as if nothing had happened, Dr. Warren continued as usual. He cleared his throat, tossed the damp cloth he had been holding back into the water basin, and looked up to meet Harry's penetrative gaze. Neither spoke. All that seemed to exist was the sensation of looking into one another's eyes.

It was one hell of a staring contest. However, it did not last for long. 

"Whatever it is you think of me Mr. Styles, I am no empiric, I've got my letters just like all the rest," Dr. Warren said, suddenly breaking eye contact as he rose from his chair and moved to grab one of the many vials he previously organized on the table. After a minute of deliberation, Dr. Warren chose one of the larger vials he had, almost as big as a water bottle, that was filled with some sort of brown substance that Harry could not immediately place. "If you must know, I was in attendance at Harvard University no more than two years past."

"Of course you did, of course," Harry grumbled in response, having found Dr. Warren to be tied with Louis as the most headache-inducing person he ever met. At that point, the nineteen-year-old doctor wasn't even easing Harry's pain but causing even more damage. At least from Harry's point of view. He had no clue what it was that Dr. Warren wished to cover his wound with, or if it would even work. As far as Harry knew about old fashioned medicine, thanks to a rather dull lecture, Louis forced him to sit through just last month, most of it was just mystical nonsense with no real guarantee of success.

"Have I done something to offend?" 

"You know what I mean," Harry lambasted as he met Dr. Warren's eyes with his own once again. Though Dr. Warren could have physically passed as a much older gentleman, with his hard angular features and straight posture, his eyes betrayed him. As Harry had noticed before, they were big and bright-eyed and full of wonder, every bit as virtuous as the eyes of a child. "You and Louis are all just a bunch of privileged snobs who don't know anything about the real world."

"I am afraid it is you, Mr. Styles, not I, who is ill-informed about the real world," Dr. Warren whispered, looking down to where Harry's arm rested with the large vial still in his hand though he made no move to use it just yet. "You do not know any of which you speak."

"But—"

"I must ask, Mr. Styles. Do you not wish your arm to heal?"

"No? I mean, yeah? I mean, I want it to heal."

"Then, if you would be so kind, Mr. Styles, please lay back and stop making such a scene," Dr. Warren stated with a hint of tenderness in his voice. "If I am ever to concentrate and administer physic to your wounds, you must put a period on whatever quarrel you have with me."

Though Harry had a few choice colorful words in mind for the doctor, he didn't dare reply. Harry knew that if he continued to speak, it would only delay the doctor's job even more, and that was one thing Harry did not want. He wanted his room free of Dr. Warren as fast as possible. 

Thus, in restored silence, Dr. Warren continued with his procedure and tentatively applied the vial's brown paste onto Harry's wound. Though the concoction looked horrid and all the more unappetizing, its smell was unexpectedly sweet. The smell, so strong it suffocated the room with its perfume, was familiar to Harry. It reminded him of the gift store back at the museum and its floor to ceiling walls of fudge. 

"It is ground cocoa… if you were wondering," Dr. Warren spoke, noticing Harry's reaction. "Dr. Benjamin Wadsworth discovered it's abilities not so long ago. As far as I have seen, it has proven to be quite effective. It should help heal your arm in due time. And if not, well… you can expect Dr. Holyoke and me to be back with a different kind of kit."

Harry did not reply, finding that there was not much he could say to the doctor without inciting another "quarrel" on his part. He instead chose to sit and watch as the young doctor coated his wound with the chocolate mixture and wrapped his arm from wrist to elbow with a thin piece of gauze. Thankfully the process did not hurt as much as the removal had. 

"Is that it, are we done here?" Harry asked when Dr. Warren rose from his chair and began to pack up his leather case, and all the vials that had fit within it. 

"Yes, as I am sure you will be pleased to hear, we are done for today," Dr. Warren spoke with a defeated sigh as he closed the clasps of his leather case and then—in a move Harry had never before seen a doctor do—gestured the sign of the cross and silently mumbled to himself. 

And, with that, just as Harry hoped, the nineteen-year-old doctor swung open the door and exited his room—leaving behind only the echo of his presence and a bandaged arm in his wake. And once again, Harry was alone. 


	8. Guests of Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very plot-heavy (I know) and I assure you that Lou and Harry will be back to interacting in the next chapter. This will probably be the longest chapter in this entire "book" (just as a heads-up). 
> 
> Also sorry if any of the history stuff is boring. I am a historian so I'm not sure what is and what is not interesting in the scope of things. My hope is that it isn't all that boring and maybe you learned something... I don't know.

Louis was late for dinner, that much he knew. That much was  _ all _ he knew. Despite his best efforts, no matter how hard he tried and tried again to strain his brain into understanding or comprehending the situation at hand, he absolutely could not. There was no conceivable explanation Louis could accept or wrap his head around without thinking he deserved to be in a psychiatric ward for doing so. And he wouldn't blame anyone if they did decide to put him in there. Hell, he would probably fasten his own straight jacket if it were physically possible. 

But no matter how mind-numbingly insane his situation was, it did not stop Louis from developing a few of his own theories. He was a historian, after all. The act of over-analyzing evidence and research was in his hardwiring. No matter how mad he knew, he sounded. 

His first theory was the sanest of the bunch, though he used the word "sane" lightly, considering that it still made Louis weak in the knees just thinking about it. 

For one, for all Louis and Harry knew, everything could have been a mere figment of their imagination, a vivid dream played out in the minds of the unconscious state. They could very well have been laying in some sterile hospital room at Mass General hospital, while their family wept over their lightning stricken bodies. To Louis' benefit, it did make relative sense—"relative," once again a word used lightly by Louis—considering all the facts. On the night of the fourth, both Louis and Harry  _ were  _ struck by lightning, a feat only a rare few walk away from with ease. But they did, notwithstanding a cut or two on Harry's part. But how? That was the question. And Louis' answer for the time being: coma. 

His other theories included such things as wandering onto the location of an extremely dedicated and exclusive historical reenactment fair, or being the victim of some kind of elaborate and well funded practical joke, or simply that the world somehow turned upside down while they were unconscious. 

And though it went entirely against his personal beliefs, religious or otherwise, the last of the three, surprisingly, had the most evidence to support it. Everything felt backward, _everything_. From Mr. Abrahams' manor to the people he had met, to how people spoke, to the feel of the bed he failed to sleep on, to the smell of the air, to even Harry Styles himself. 

Back at the museum, it was a fact known by everyone that "on time" was not in Harry's vocabulary. And it was no matter of exaggeration. Nearly every day for three years, Louis had watched Harry trudge into the staff break room, coffee in hand, to clock in at ten a.m. A whole two hours after the museum had opened its gate for the public. 

And his tardiness did not even stop at that. He was even late for the coveted staff breakfasts held every Thursday morning, an event that even those like Brad and his posse came early for. And by the time Harry usually graced everyone with his presence, there were usually only a few soggy pieces of cantaloupe, and a half-eaten donut or bagel left. Not even any coffee left for him to hide in his historically-accurate mug, a gift from the potters that every employee was given during their training.

Thus, never in a million years did Louis ever believe he would see the day that Harry Styles was more on time than he. But there he was sitting at Mr. Abrahams' table as clear as day, slumped in his chair and wagging his finger disapprovingly in Louis' direction. 

Despite his surprise, uncharacteristic punctuality, Louis could  _ almost _ commend Harry for being so consistent, especially considering all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours. However, deep down inside, he was still Harry Styles, and he certainly did not need to be commended for that. And even if Louis did, he knew it would just go straight to Harry's head. And that was something Louis did not need to deal with on top of everything else. 

Finding it in his best interest, Louis remained unfazed at Harry's tease. He would not get a reaction out of him just for wagging his finger in his direction. Perhaps if Harry had been smugly smiling at him as well, it would be a different story. But he had not. Though Harry loved to tease Louis with a burning passion, that much was true; he loved alcohol far more than anything else. And at that particular moment, Harry was far too preoccupied with chugging from his crystal wine glass to be so smug. A finger wag was as much effort as he was willing that night. 

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Mr. Abrahams, who sat across from Harry at the table, had a different welcome to Louis' late attendance to dinner. 

"Golly, am I pleased we decided to wait," Mr. Abrahams marveled with a clap of his hands, his eyes lit up at the sight of Louis' presence at the entrance of the grand dining room. "For a moment there, I was worried you would never arise from bed."

Louis smiled at his words, playing them off as nothing but an innocent joke, but deep inside, Louis knew there was an underlying sliver of truth to his quip. And he didn't blame Mr. Abrahams for thinking that way. He himself doubted whether or not he would ever leave the confines of his bed when he first awoke. He hardly had enough energy to stop his tears, let alone make an effort to get ready. Or at least that was what he thought until, after hours of laying on his sodden and tear-stained pillow, Louis came to the sudden realization that he could not even hear his weeping over the grumbling of his stomach. 

And although Louis thought earlier not to take up Mr. Abrahams' offer for dinner, feeling that he would be nothing but an improper imposition, Louis' feet quickly guided him out of his room and down the stairs, to the beautiful dining room where Mr. Abrahams and Harry sat. 

Louis was surprised that he had not noticed just how exquisite the dining chamber was during Captain Kelley's tour. It was an unequivocal masterpiece of a room, and far more elaborate than any set up he ever saw at the museum. No doubt Janet Sloan, the kindly older woman who worked in the museum's collections department and taught Louis all he knows about antique furniture, would have to be resuscitated if she ever laid eyes on Mr. Abrahams' dining room. Louis chuckled at the thought. 

Though Louis knew Mr. Abrahms for no more than a couple of hours, his opulence spoke for himself. Nearly every piece of furniture in the room gleamed more graceful and elegant than anything he had seen before. Even the white and silk royal damask hangings on the windows hung with the poise of a ballerina. And though it did nothing more than lay lifeless on the hardwood floor, Mr. Abrahams English rug looked as if it could have just as easily been at the feet of the king, than those who dined with Mr. Abrahams. Himself and Harry included.

Across from where Louis stood was an exquisitely detailed white wooden fireplace holding three intricate vases—each with their own blue painted story— atop its mantle. And before the fireplace was a grand mahogany table, positioned atop the rug and accompanied by eight Chippendale chairs. One of which was accompanied by Mr. Abrahams, who bore a great white smile as he looked Louis' way.

"Will you sit?"

"Don't get me wrong, Mr. Abrahams, I am thankful that you waited for me, but are you certain it is alright if I dine with you?" Louis spoke in a hushed manner as he lowered his head to look at his feet. Though his stomach grumbled with as much ferocity as a jet engine, Louis could not shake the feeling that he had made a mistake in coming to dine. Perhaps he did not belong in such a room, or a place, like the one he faced. "I only mean, we are strangers after all, and well..." 

Louis did not finish his thought, believing it best to leave his words unspoken. 

"Nonsense, you are my guest of honor. You will always be welcome."

Harry chuckled into his wine glass as he sat across from the old man, but neither of them paid him any mind. Louis instead focused all of his attention on trying to walk towards his chair, pulled out by one of Mr. Abrahams' many servants, without falling over. Similar to the rest of his ensemble, the only pair of shoes he could find in the truck, pilgrim-esque looking black leather clogs, were ill-fitting. Clearly, they were tailormade for someone with much larger and wider feet than he. For all, he knew they could have been for a giant. But Louis wasn't about to waltz into dinner barefoot, having lost both his sandals somewhere between the clearing and Mr. Abrahams' manor, so the giant's shoes had to do. He would just have to suck it up until he reached his seat. For, as soon as Louis' butt touched the seat of the wooden chair, his clogs were already kicked off and forgotten under the shadow of the table. 

"So, what's on the menu tonight, Mr. A?" Harry spoke as he casually laid back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

"I do so hope it is my favorite. I had a word with the cook and told her it was for a special occasion."

"What is the special occasion?" Louis piped up from where he sat at the table, across from both Harry and Mr. Abrahams.

"For you two, of course. It is your first dinner in the manor!" Mr. Abrahams said with a bright smile and clap of his hands. "Let us celebrate."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Abrahams. You are much too kind, considering," Louis did not know exactly what to say. Everything felt so strange, so backward, to say something as simple as a thank you. 

"The pleasure is all mine…," the old man trailed off, deep in thought. "My apologies, I have seemed to have forgotten your name, dear."

"Louis, sir.," The words felt strange in Louis' throat as he spoke them as if he were an actor following a script. Though he never told visitors his real name at the museum, a precaution his parents told him to use, it felt just the same as telling strangers his name was "Kevin" as it felt to tell Mr. Abrahams his real name. Perhaps it was the formality of it all, the awkward inclusion of adding "sir." like he was his superior. Though given his age, his apparent wealth, and even the formality in his voice, Mr. Abrahams clearly was superior in every way. Louis only wished he could be on the same level, or even mimic, those of whom he usually took as his company. "Louis Tomlinson." 

Louis did not know precisely what he expected Mr. Abrahams to do upon hearing his name, but he was content with the response he gave him: a curt nod of his head and nothing more. 

After all, as Louis came to realize, there wasn't any time for more conversation anyhow, for no more than a minute later, at the hands of numberless unrecognizable servants, their meal was carted in dish after dish. Though there were only the three of them seated for dinner, presented before them was a feast made for a king. 

From what Louis could tell, Mr. Abrahams' cook had supplied for them with a crisply cooked bird looking thing—Louis would later come to learn that it was wild pigeon—multiple steaming bowls of baked beans, buttery carrots, seasoned brown potatoes, and a bountiful supply of rich Madeira wine—of which, Harry drank for the both of them. 

Louis didn't blame Mr. Abrahams when he bellowed a theatrical whoop of delight at the sight of it on their china plates. Given how hungry he was, he wondered why he didn't whoop in delight as well. Perhaps it was because Louis was afraid that if he was to open his mouth even a fraction of an inch more than what was needed to shovel a knife full—the only cutlery presented before him on the table was a dull knife—of food into his mouth, he would suck all the food on the table into his mouth like a vacuum. Just as what was happening with Harry, who hadn't even waited till Mr. Abrahams was done with grace before he began shoveling handfuls of baked beans into his mouth. 

Louis wasn't even sure if Harry took one breath in between bites of his food. Though he must have, for he was still alive by the time all the food was gone, no more than ten minutes after it was served. 

"My compliments to the chef, Mr. A, that was, I think, the best food I have ever eaten," Harry moaned, no doubt feeling the same as Louis. Though no longer did they feel the pains of hunger, in its wake, they became the victims of an even worse discomfort, fullness. Louis felt as if he were weighed down to his chair by an exceptionally sized boulder. He could hardly stomach the idea of moving, let alone eating ever again. It was like he had just come back from Thanksgiving with his relatives down in Louisiana, with their overly buttery mashed potatoes and guilt-ridden four-cheese mac and cheese. 

"Mr. Tomlinson, you appear much more composed this evening," Mr. Abrahams said sweetly as he glanced at Louis from across the table. "Don't you agree, Harry?"

Harry only shrugged and took another sip from his wine glass, re-filled upon his request to the brim with red wine. Louis took it as a compliment. 

"Thank you," Louis replied, though he did not at all believe it. Even if he hadn't just eaten, and didn't feel as if butter and grease were oozing out of his pores, he still did not feel all that "composed" or presentable. He felt silly, almost as if he were a child dressed up in his father's clothes. 

Though he was used to wearing a costume and performing in front of the guests, eating dinner with Mr. Abrahams, felt like something else entirely. There was no audience to impress, no act to portray, just him, and an elaborate ensemble of fabric. And elaborate was putting it mildly. 

It was unlike anything Louis ever had the opportunity to wear before. Even back at the museum, whatever he wore was chosen for him by the costume department, and it was rare they ever let him wear anything so pristine or ostentatious. Though Louis wasn't even sure, they had any costumes back at the museum like the one he wore that moment. From what Louis remembered of his yearly fittings, most of the museum's inventory consisted of shapeless reproductions with simple patterns and dyes and hidden zippers or buttons. Louis did not blame the seamstresses at the museum; however, he understood why their costumes were the way that they were. Considering how dirty one could get during a single workday, there was no reason to put in the effort to make a custom or fancy costumes like the ones seen in period movies. They didn't have to look pretty, all they had to do was present an air of historical accuracy and last at least a couple of years of use and a cycle of employees before they could be reworked into rags or pockets. 

So as one could imagine, when Louis found himself faced with the task of getting dressed, he was met with quite a challenge. Even with his knowledge of historical garb from the museum's collections department, he hardly knew how to approach an outfit like the one he found at the bottom of the trunk. There wasn't a zipper or a "hook and eye" insight.

And though it was embarrassing on both ends, with no other choice, Louis had to coerce one of the footmen to come and help him out. He was a timid young thing, Louis didn't think he spoke even once during the whole ordeal. Though Louis didn't mind, he appreciated the silence and the attentiveness the boy gave to the task. And attentive he was. It did not take more than ten minutes before Louis was dressed in more clothing than he had ever worn before. The list was impressively extensive. 

Covering nearly every inch of his tan skin, Louis was dressed in a plain white undershirt and stockings, a suffocatingly tight golden waistcoat, a light pink coat, a ruffled cravat, and trousers that fell a little too far below the knee—too big on Louis' petite form. His hair was also styled, slicked back by the footman with some kind of grease. Louis did not ask what it was—scared of what the truth could be. Best not to know. 

"You are very much welcome," Mr. Abrahams said with a smile. 

Though Louis still was uncertain of Mr. Abrahams' intentions, Louis admired how jolly Mr. Abrahams seemed. He was like one of the department store Santas Louis' parents used to force him to take pictures with every Christmas as a kid, with a bright pearly smile and round rosy cheeks. Louis only wished he had but a sliver of the joy he exhibited. 

But given his current predicament, full to the point of sickness in a place he did not recognize, Louis did not feel at all like smiling. He needed answers. Answers that maybe, just maybe Mr. Abrahams had. 

"So, last night, back at Major Bennet's tent… you mentioned something about the war, Mr. Abrahams?" 

"Ah yes, the  _ war," _ Mr. Abrahams seethed, his voice hard and unapologetic. Within an instant, gone was his smile and rosy red cheeks. "You must have been just about born, but the time it began, though I am sure you are all aware of it by now."

Louis and Harry answered only with blank expressions. 

"Golly now, I am not so inclined as to where both of you came from, but you must be familiar. As far as I heard, even as far south as the Spanish Empire was affected. Well nigh every one up here was, I know that for certain—some more than others. I was fortunate to be too old to join the effort, but my house was not. If you'll believe it, those very rooms you stay in now were once quartered by British soldiers."

"And was Captain Kelley one of them?"

"No, no, he had been stationed elsewhere during the war, though I cannot quite remember where exactly. New York, perhaps." Mr. Abrahams drawled as he sipped from his wine. "We did not meet until much later, my dear, about five or so years past when his regiment was re-stationed to the Boston Commons. He came to me with a proposition one day."

Louis raised an eyebrow in the older man's direction, curious as to where this story was going. 

"Tis' a rather tight-lipped secret of the crown, my dear, but soldiers in those days earned quite a reduced wage. Far less than they do now. Some had no other choice but to offer cheap labor in return for a few extra coins for their family or their gambling debts or even to buy ale at the tavern. Captain Kelley was one of such fellows."

"And so you hired him?"

"As I said, it was cheap labor. It did not cost me much coin to hire him every so often, usually the days when he was off-duty, nor to grant him an apartment of his own." the old man said with a laugh. "And though over time he had developed a tendency to come here more for leisure than labor, hiring Captain Kelley was one of the finer investments I ever made. Even if he is a soldier for the king, he has become quite a friend."

"The king? What king?" Harry slurred across from the old man in a volume way louder than was needed. 

"Oh, you know, the  _ king,  _ Harry. King, uh…," Louis trailed off, uncertain why he decided to play along and open his mouth to speak in the first place. If the so-called "king" Mr. Abrahams referenced was actually one from history—theoretically, of course—there were far too many for Louis to know just which one it was he meant. All the best he could do was pray that his context clues of this coma fantasy—the clothes he wore and the English he spoke told him the king was at least one of many 18th century English kings—would put him somewhere in the ballpark of the right answer for Mr. Abrahams' test. "King George… the Second?"

_ That's a solid answe _ r, Louis thought. And he wasn't the only one. Though he offered no further response himself, Mr. Abrahams nodded his head slightly upon hearing Louis' answer. 

Louis exhaled a sigh of relief. 

It had been almost five years since Louis last learned about the English monarchy, and Louis had an inkling that time had not treated that knowledge kindly. Truth be told, as far as Louis could tell, anything earlier than Henry the VII and House Tudor was a haze. Though that wasn't horrible. In fact, it was a pleasant surprise he had even remembered as much as he did, considering how expansive the lineage of the British monarchy was. 

"You know, I think we've all had a long day," Louis said. "Harry, especially. He's probably still in pain from his procedure this morning. He probably doesn't even know what day it is."

Harry nodded his head in agreement, slowly jerking his head up and down like a bobblehead as he sat beside Louis.

Mr. Abrahams grunted and looked at him questioningly. "Harry, you have not been much of a chatterbox this evening as I expected. Are you certain nothing is the matter? Is your arm still a bother?"

"No, my arm feels a lot better, thank you. The doctor put some kind of chocolate substance on my arm, and it seems to have helped. I'm fine, just a little confused… and drunk," Harry spoke matter of factly before releasing a long boisterous burp with no proceeding apology. 

Unlike Louis, who awkwardly chuckled in the silence left in the wake of Harry's poor manners, Mr. Abrahams did not appear all too bothered. He instead turned in his seat and motioned to one of the servants that stood along the walls of the room and said. "Elisha, did you collect my post yesterday?" 

"As always, sir."

"If you could then, please fetch it for me from my desk."

"Yes, sir."

It took one hundred and twenty ticks of the clock to pass before Elisha finally re-entered into the dining room, a thin stack of papers in hand. 

"Here you go, sir," Elisha said, fanning the news before Mr. Abrahams. 

"Aye, thank you, Elisha, but this is not for me," Mr. Abrahams said before gathering the stray pieces of long paper and handing it to Louis. "This is for you, dear. I do believe after some time spent traveling, you have missed some news?"

"Why thank you," Louis baffled, tenderly grabbing the paper from Mr. Abrahams. Harry leaned towards Louis in his seat, his chin inches from his shoulder as he read the article alongside him. 

The pages Louis held in his hands were a shade of light brown, a few shades darker than any paper he had ever seen before. They looked almost as if they were stained by tea, a trick he perfected as a child when he wanted to remake the look of aged paper. However, unlike his childhood craft, the paper he held in his hands felt real, naturally dated in a way. He would have believed them to be the workings of the museum, if not for the fact that some words on the papers were faded by the sun and or smudged by fingers or water, making most pages near indecipherable. Not to mention that a sizable portion of the front page had been ripped out, in a manner so precise it made Louis think that someone had done it intentionally. Never would the museum sell or produce anything in such a manner, even if it was more "historically accurate." 

"It came yesterday by way of a messenger, exclaiming that there were urgent new developments about the rebel insurgents and their destiny or such rather…," Mr. Abrahams continued to speak, though Louis did not listen. He could only focus on one thing and one thing only. 

There, in the upper right-hand corner, above the words, "The Boston Evening Post," was the date printed bold and bright for all to see. 

It was Monday, July 5th, 1773.

Yesterday was the Fifth of July, and today was the sixth; two whole mornings after the last recorded day Louis remembered, Independence day. It felt like centuries ago, and if the newspaper was correct, maybe it was. 

Tears sprung in Louis' eyes. 

"Excuse me," Louis whispered as he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and stood from his chair. 

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, awkwardly moving to stand as well. 

"Anywhere but here." Louis moved quickly on his bare feet towards the massive mahogany doors of the dining room and swung them open with ease. "My apologies, Mr. Abrahams."

"Teach, wait," Harry said, catching up to him. "I'll come with you."

Louis nodded in agreement, knowing deep down that he did not wish to be alone. 


	9. Paved Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I will try updating this work pretty regularly. I already have a few chapters done in advance, so hopefully, you won't have to wait too long between chapters. 
> 
> I am still working but soon I will be back in school and will have more free time to write. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

July 6th, 1773 

Contrary to what Louis initially expected, closing his eyes did not make it any easier to ignore his current situation. In truth, it only made it all the more strangely apparent just how little he could hear. Though he could hear the sounds of various farm animals and the rustling of the wind without strain, there was little else that resonated in his ears. He could not hear any of the familiar noises he had grown accustomed to while living in the city: the ambiance of cars honking their horns or accelerating their engines, the incoherent nonsense that echoed from people as they moved out and about on the sidewalks, the rattle and prattle of heavy construction machinery, the constant sirens from emergency vehicles, or the hum of a television or radio playing out of a window nearby. 

And although Louis knew that many found nature sounds to be comforting and peaceful—Niall even had a cassette of white noise he occasionally listened to with his portable walkman while he slept—at that moment, Louis felt nowhere near relaxed. He felt quite the opposite, and even more so when he finally pried his eyes open. 

As far as Louis' eyes could see from the back entrance of Mr. Abrahams's manor, the surrounding land stretched out for miles upon miles. It was endless. Louis could hardly see anything in the distance, aside from the sporadic growths of trees or the occasional dirt path. There was not a single utility pole or lamp post insight. Not even another building—although, if Louis squinted his eyes hard enough and tilted his head to a certain degree, he could  _ almost _ convince himself there was a house in the distance. But putting his delusions aside, it was clear that they were a significant distance away from the center of civilization—or at least the center according to Louis' understanding of the "time"—of the port city of Charlestown. They had to be inland, that much was certain, away from the shore of the small peninsula. Though a small stream ran through Mr. Abrahms' property, Louis could see no other source of water in the area. There was no Charles river, Mystic river, or even the inner stretch of Boston Harbor insight. All that surrounded the manor was rolling fields of grass and dirt, though no notable hills. If Mr. Abrahams did, in fact, occupy the same location as the staff manor, and that was a big "if," then the only notable hill in Charlestown, Breed's hill—or better known as Bunker hill—was about a half an hour car ride to the west. 

Though the land around Mr. Abrahams' manor continued as far as Louis could see, only a hundred or so feet of land behind and around, Mr. Abrahams' estate was in use. One half of the property was a kitchen garden, growing all sorts of seasonal vegetables: summer squash, onions, peas, and many others Louis couldn't place at sight alone. The other half was a flower garden, far less practical, but far more beautiful. Louis was sure that he had never before seen such beauty. It was like a photograph of heaven itself, with the vibrant colors backdropped with the cloudless sky and the glow of summer sun. Yet as Louis looked out across the flower spotted land, he could not bring himself to smile.

"Holy shit," he heard Harry whisper beside him with a slight chuckle and a whistle, smiling from ear to ear. "Looks like we took the time bridge, after all, huh, Teach."

Back in the time that Louis called home, the land in the back of the manor was not a beautiful garden like the one he wistfully admired, but a paved parking lot, a so-called "land bridge" between the staff manor and the museum (and countless other seedy establishments). Every morning, every employee who inhabited the staff manor would walk as a group across the asphalt parking lot to the land of Colonial America. It truly was a bridge between two worlds, even if it was essentially just a dirty sanctuary for city-dwelling delinquents and their deals of unholy kinds. 

Some of the more senior members of the museum, privy to their daily routine after years of attendance, used to joke that the parking lot was more magical than it presented itself to be. They used to call the parking lot a "bridge" back in time. Or so to speak a "time bridge," as they liked to call it. And they liked to call it that a lot. A lot, a lot. So much so that after three summers working at the museum, Louis had developed a whole performance routine for whenever someone made that joke. Louis would always give them, usually an older gentleman, a fake enough laugh to convince them he hadn't heard it before and commend them on their wit. However, when Harry said it just then, staring out at the beautiful garden before them, Louis' first reaction was not to cue the laughter but to cry.

"Sorry, I just didn't think I could handle being in there right now," Louis spoke as he glanced down towards the ground and used the back of his hand to wipe away the tears that pooled on the rims of his eyes. "Now that we are... somewhere."

"You mean two hundred years in the past?"

Louis glared at Harry out of the corners of his eyes. "Come on, Harry, we don't know that for certain."

"What do you mean we don't know that for certain?" Harry stated ridiculously. "I mean, you saw that newspaper too, Teach."

"I don't know what I saw," Louis whispered, "For all, we know this could all be fake, a dream we're having while in a coma."

"Oh come on Teach, does any of this feel fake to you? You felt those papers, how real it felt. You saw that date printed on it, clear and marked with black ink," he said, enunciating every word. "It looked exactly like those newspapers we have in the museum. There is no mistaking it."

"You think I don't know that?" Louis whispered once more. "It-it's just... there is no other logical explanation."

"What about time travel?"

"Don't be so… whatever Harry. You and I both know that time travel doesn't exist."

"Well, I think Marty and Doc Brown would disagree."

"Oh come on, this isn't like one of your pranks, Harry. This isn't a laughing matter. It's serious."

"Geesh, why do you always gotta be so serious, Teach. I mean, would it kill you to take a chill pill?" Harry slurred his words as he stepped away from the door and moved to waltz down one of the many garden paths. "You know you're starting to make time travel, not fun for me." 

Louis groaned as he continued after Harry down the winding path, stepping gingerly on the dirt ground with his stocking-covered feet. 

"Please, Harry, just don't. Okay? Because if we did time travel, if it truly does exist, then there is nothing "fun" about this situation we are in," Louis huffed, crossing his arms across his chest as he walked. 

"Why? Because you didn't bring a notebook to write down all of your observations and research on?"

"No," Louis snapped—a little more forceful than he intended—before he awkwardly cleared his throat and trailed off in a whisper. "Because…"

"Because what?"

Louis groaned. 

"Because life was not exactly easy during this time, Harry," Louis spoke, the words burning as they left his mouth. "And it certainly was not "fun," as you put it. Not at all."

Louis had finally said it; had finally given life to the fear that had plagued his mind since they arrived at that soldier encampment. Though he had tried his best to ignore it—to bury it within his subconscious like one of his childhood nightmares—Louis found that as he stood in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, he could not stop the floodgates of his mind from forcing themselves open. He could not stop the tears brimming on his eyes as well. 

It was not that Louis was simply scared of whether or not he had  _ actually _ time traveled, but instead of what awaited him if he  _ had _ . There was a lot more that sent shivers down his spine than just the prospect of the impossible being possible. 

"You're dramatic."

"Dramatic? Harry, you  _ heard _ what the major said last night, what he called me, what he called us. The implication of it anyway," Louis seethed. "Had Mr. Abrahams not thankfully intervened, they could have hung us for  _ sodomy _ ."

Though every word Louis spoke into existence was painful as they rolled off his tongue, none more so than the word "sodomy." Louis practically choked on it as it left his mouth. 

It was no secret at the museum, or any circle of people Louis ran with, that he preferred the company of men over that of women. But it was not public knowledge either. No one had asked, and he had not told. For years, everyone had simply made conclusions and assumptions—and decisions on whether they wanted to be his friend based on that knowledge—and Louis never bothered to correct them. After all, it was only the truth—in name, anyway. Considering the current (or now,  _ future _ ) state of America, Louis had yet to even kiss a boy. He had been too nervous for more reasons than one. But he still was what he was, kissless or not. 

"You don't know that, Teach. I mean, they wouldn't even have any proof," Harry spoke, still stalking ahead of Louis without even a glance in his direction. 

"Cute, Harry, funny. Good one."

"What?" Harry looked over his shoulder for the first time to meet Louis' gaze. 

"It's cute that you think they would even need, or care to have proof to hang someone here. This is colonial New England for Gods' sake, Harry! I mean, everyone here is a puritan, they live and breathe the Bible and the Magna Carta. To them, any "sin" is a crime. And they do not have enough of a legitimate legal system, away from the church, to possibly care about proof in these cases."

Harry let out a long and exasperated sigh, clearly regretting his decision ever to open his mouth and get Louis going on the subject. It was music to his ears. Louis couldn't help but chuckle wickedly to himself and continue with his lecture—just to spite Harry and his apparent annoyance. 

"I mean, after all, it's not like they had  _ no _ proof," Louis continued, emphasizing and dragging out the word "no" with drama. "Like Harry, what explanation could you possibly have to explain why we were in the woods together, and you weren't wearing a shirt. I mean, they basically called us "naked!" How could you explain that?"

"The truth."

"Oh yeah cause, "I'm sorry, Mr. Military man we weren't out half-dressed in the woods because of any illegal business, like most people, we were there because we had time-traveled from two-hundred years in the future!'" Louis mouthed off. "Please, Harry, if they knew the truth, then they would have just hung us for witchery or madness or whatever else. They could have found many things to have hung us for. Don't you get that, Harry? Or do I have to teach it to you again? Cause clearly you don't know anything."

At Louis' remark, with the quickness of a dancer, Harry spun on the back of his heels and faced Louis for the first time since they exited in the manor. His face was flushed a bright red, and his eyebrows were knitted together in displeasure.

"Look, Teach, I know this may come as a surprise to you, but you are not the only person who knows history. Okay? I've read textbooks, I've seen Roots. Believe me, I know that the past is shitty, and even our present in 1988 is shitty and that the future will probably be shitty too. I know. So maybe just get off your high horse for a change and smell the goddamn flowers or something for fuck's sake. Just chill out, man."

Without missing a beat, Louis shot him a glare. Though Louis was not in any way surprised, Harry had been one of the millions who watched Roots—the most popular television program of the last decade—Louis did not appreciate the reference. 

If Harry hadn't already been injured, hadn't been the only person he knew, Louis would have humored the idea of causing him great pain. He did not know how he would have done it, a swift kick to the shins perhaps, or even to his groin, but Louis would have done it somehow. If only to cause Harry the same amount of pain as he caused him at that moment. Louis was unsure if Harry chose to act the way that he did, to be so carelessly ignorant and apathetic to his emotions. Still, either way, Louis could not help but feel unheard in Harry's presence as if all his words and all his sorrows fell upon deaf ears. 

Louis did not know as to why he was surprised by the revelation. Of course, Harry would not understand. He was Louis Tomlinson, or Teach as Harry so preferred to call him, after all, and he was Harry Styles. He, unlike Louis, did not weep nor shed a tear for their long-forgotten time. Instead, he smiled a broad toothy grin and sighed.

"Look, you and I both know, we have to make the best of it no matter what," Harry spoke, gently caressing the bandages on his arm as he turned back around to walk down the path. "I mean, if we have Mr. Abrahams for protection, maybe life won't be so bad. Maybe no one would be able to hurt us."

Louis did not respond for some time, thinking carefully over Harry's words as he followed after him. Perhaps, like a broken clock, Harry was right for once, maybe they  _ could _ be safe. However, Louis was in no way willing to put any money on it. Putting his fears aside, Louis still did not know if he could trust Mr. Abrahams enough to stick around. And though Louis could admit that Harry's optimistic view was intriguing to agree with, there was a hell of a lot more to consider about their situation than Harry had cared to think about. Not to mention the fact that Louis had no intention to forgo all logic and admit that  _ both _ time travel was real  _ and _ Harry Styles was right about something on the  _ same day _ . One was as much as either he and Harry's ego could handle for now. 

"We have no clue what might happen to us."

"Does anyone? I mean, even though we know that the French and Indian War happens and the Revolution happens, and the Civil War and many other wars take place… but that's beside the point" Harry stopped himself in his tracks to look at Louis. "Though we do not know what may happen to us, that's not going to stop us. Right? We could be back home in a week you don't know. We have to have at least some fun while we are here, though. I mean, we could  _ literally _ be the first time travelers, ever. Isn't that so cool?"

Louis didn't respond to any of Harry's questions, opting instead to turn his attention to the large wooden barns and mud pen that lay adjacent to Mr. Abrahams' manor. Though he could not see any of the animals that inhabited the barns, aside from a few free-roaming chickens and roosters, Louis had a good guess as to what kind of animals Mr. Abrahams possessed on his property. Just from sound and smell alone, Louis discerned that the old man had quite an expansive inventory of cows, horses, pigs, and even a few sheep. 

_ Quite a farming business he got there _ , Louis thought. _ Guess that explains the money… and the house. _

"So, are you going to stop crying now? I hate it when people cry."

"No, because now I am crying at the fact that you didn't know that the French and Indian war happened before 1773," Louis whispered as he continued forward on the pathway, thinking to himself. Now that he was in the fresh air and had some time to digest, it was clear that it must have been the French and Indian War that Mr. Abrahams referenced at dinner. Although he probably knew it by its more colloquial name, The Seven Years' War. 

"I thought it was like the aftermath of the Revolution, you know?" Harry mumbled as he walked beside Louis. "Like now that Britain doesn't own us, here comes France."

"I guess now I know who was snoring during my lecture I gave on the war last summer," Louis spoke with a shiver, troubled by how far from the truth Harry was. Yes, the Seven Years' War  _ was _ primarily fought between centuries-long rivals, France and England, but it was much more complicated than what Harry seemed to know. Much more. The war was not just "here comes France"—as he so plainly put it—but a territorial dispute over the Ohio River Valley to be specific. France wanted it, and so did England. And just as history predicted would happen, war ensued. Seven bloody years of war, fought by men who would probably never even inhabit the valley or even America for that matter. Seven bloody years that ended with a glorious victory for Britain, and a thirst for vengeance by France. Though, for better or worse, Britain's victory did not last them that long after. And, just as history predicted, France eventually  _ did  _ get their revenge on the Empire. In five years to be exact, midway through the Revolutionary War in 1778. 

"Yeah, well, maybe if your lectures weren't so boring, I wouldn't have fallen asleep," Harry countered as he fiddled with his white linen cravat, already soaked with sweat from the mid-day humidity. "That's just my luck, right? I mean, of course, I'm stuck with you. Of course, I'm stuck with boring know-it-all Teach."

"Well, at least we aren't alone. You know, even if it is you and me. At least we know someone."

"What makes you think you know me?" Harry said with a grin, before sauntering away from Louis and down a pathway of growing onions. 

Louis rolled his eyes before shouting after Harry, "Fine, be that way, Harry, but you and I both know that we need to make a plan eventually."

"Great! Just what I wanted to hear when I found out we time traveled… homework."


	10. A Cup of Bohea Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so sorry in advance for this chapter. I know the ending will hurt a tiny bit, but I assure you everything will work out in the end (maybe). This story will be majority angst/slow burn, sorry. 
> 
> Also, I will be moving back to college tomorrow and it will be pretty hectic for a few days, so don't expect the next chapter until maybe the 10th. Maybe. But after that, the updates should be pretty regular. 
> 
> Also, also, I know I said chapter 8 would probably be the longest chapter but I just couldn't help myself. I got carried away with their banter.

July 13, 1773 

If there was one sentiment Louis held, no matter which century he was in, it was that no one should ever take air conditioning for granted. No one. Though the sun had not yet risen over the horizon, as Louis sat alone in the manor's kitchen, beads of sweat had already begun to trickle down his tan forearms and adhere to the cloth of his cotton sleeves. 

_ My God, the things I would do for even a minute in front of an electric fan, _ Louis thought to himself as he cursed the summer season and all it entailed. Though truth be told, Louis never cared much for summer anyway—even  _ before _ he became stuck in the eternal furnace that was Mr. Abrahams’ manor. 

With its seemingly endless cycle of monotonous days and excruciatingly humid climate, came with it a certain set of expectations Louis was never able to fulfill. Unlike most people his age, who raced out of the last day of school with hunger and excitement in their eyes, Louis never had anything to race towards. Or at least, nothing that warranted the haste; just the same small house on the edge of town, he walked back to every other day of the year. It being summer did not make any difference, save for a newfound feeling of dread in his step and the impending doom of boredom. Without the rigid schedule of school, the company of friends, or a promised escape to Disneyworld or the nearby city, Louis was left to spend every summer of his youth in the Tomlinson home all by himself. With both, his mother and his father kept out of the house on the orders of their bosses, and his lethargic grandmother kept in his bed on the orders of his doctor, Louis did not even have the company of his family to keep himself entertained. Though that did not mean Louis had the freedom to do whatever he wished in terms of entertainment. Nope. Far from it, in fact. 

"Don't do what I wouldn't do," Louis' parents would say to him every summer morning over breakfast. Six simple words that would echo in Louis' mind long after his cereal, Count Chocula or Golden Grahams, had digested in his stomach. 

_ Don’t do what I wouldn’t do.  _

And, knowing his parents, that was practically everything. There was little Louis could  _ do _ at all except stay inside and entertain herself in any way he could. And, though Louis did enjoy the occasional television program or a game of cards with his grandmother—even in her elderly condition, Louis never could beat the old woman—more often than not Louis' main source of leisure was from reading the books he borrowed from his town's public library.

Louis did not know exactly how many books he read each summer as a child, only that every day spent in that house was another day spent lounging on his father's recliner with his nose between the pages of a book. Most of which, of course—as anyone who had ever met him would guess—were from the dusty "history" section of the library. Though he occasionally strayed far enough to enjoy a mystery novel or an acclaimed classic, Louis' most favorite summer reads were accounts of the wild west Vaqueros, Atlantic pirates, and the Revolutionary War. 

And his summers had been that way, book-filled and alone, ever since he could remember—or at least, the summer of 1975 when his family moved to Great Barrington. It was the very first summer Louis ever remembered, having been all too young to remember the city he was born in, the cement playground his brother used to rule over like his own personal kingdom. 

Although at only the age of seven in 1975, what Louis remembered was quite insignificant in the grand scope of all else. That year, he did not remember the news reports of the Watergate Scandal or the launch of the Skylab space station or even what music legends played on the radio. Still, he did remember the exact look and feel of the station wagon his family rode in on their way to Great Barrington. 

It was his father's prized possession, a mustard yellow Ford Gran Torino wagon. It could barely comfortably fit the four members of the family, let alone the additional quantity of belongings they had taken from their Boston apartment. Nonetheless, not willing to argue with his father, especially during  _ that _ summer, the four of them compliantly arranged themselves in their seats to fit around their luggage. Every single member of the family, including his father in the driver's seat and his grandmother sleeping in the back, had to hold at least a couple of boxes on their laps. And, as was to be expected, by the time they arrived at their new house, both the leather seats and the cardboard boxes on their laps were drenched with sweat. Even with all the windows rolled down, the summer humidity had made the car as hot as a furnace. And it certainly did not help that they were wearing all black as well. 

Thankfully, however, after nearly a three-hour drive, they were freed from the heat and the soundless atmosphere of the car ride—throughout it all, no one had dared to speak or put on the radio—and finally arrived at their new home.

The house was on a dead-end street, little ways from the center of town and the public school system, though far enough that they could not hear the sounds of the main roads at night. It was a small cottage, obviously neglected from its past owners, with its peeling gray paint and leaves from the previous autumn still stuck on its roof. But to the Tomlinson family, it was perfect. Not solely because of the house itself, but also the town. 

Looking back at it years later, Louis still could not believe that the town he grew up in was the same place that birthed such a radical figure as W. E. B. Du Bois. Great Barrington was, at least to him, too quaint and random for Du Bois' greatness to transpire. But to Louis' parents, Great Barrington's small-town nature was exactly why they chose it, finding it to be exactly what Louis and the family needed; an escape from the misfortunes of city life. Louis, having only been seven years old at the time, listened to his parent's careful guidance and eventually learned to see the town as they did. Sure, it may have been quite lacking in the "fun" department for any teenager to enjoy, but to Louis, it was his  _ home _ . And that was more than enough for Louis never to leave. 

He had not even left Great Barrington for his higher education at the age of sixteen—having skipped his junior and senior year at the nearest public high school. He commuted instead to the local liberal arts college no more than a ten-minute drive away. It was not until he was seventeen years of age did he first even consider leaving the small town, and it was not even his idea, to begin with. 

Louis' grandmother, living in and out of the hospital at the time, was the first to suggest it. Though to say "suggest it" would not be entirely accurate of what actually transpired. It was not even Louis, but his grandmother who filled out the museum job application for him.

A decision that Louis progressively regretted his grandmother had made with every passing day he spent in 1773. Seven days of regret, and counting. 

Seven days of spending his days locked within the confines of his room like a willing princess Rapunzel. Seven days of having no one other than an old man and Harry Styles as his company. Seven days with only the convenience of a close stool chair for which to relieve himself. Seven days of straining to read more than five pages at a time of any of Mr. Abraham's books just from the absurdity of the long "s" alone. Seven days without his family. Seven days of eating nothing but porridge, grainy bread, and unseasoned boiled vegetables for breakfast. Seven days of collecting dirt and sweat on his skin without the possibility of a shower to wash it all away. Seven days without a full night's sleep. 

No matter what he did—fluff his woolen mattress and feather pillows, count off the sheep in the distant field, do some jumping jacks, change sleeping positions—Louis could not bring himself to give in to the darkness. Louis assumed his insomnia was just a reaction to the sheer foreignness of his surroundings, the feel of the bed that was not his, the suffocatingly hot atmosphere, or the eerie sound of silence around him. But whatever it was, his insomnia did not go away, not even after a couple of days had passed. 

By his third sleepless night, Louis had given up on rest entirely and begun to venture down to the kitchen to kill some time, or at least as much time as it took to make a cup of tea. Which, to both his delight and irritation, was quite a bit of time. On the first night, it took Louis well over an hour to make just one cup, having found only damp kindling in the kitchen's wood box. However, by the time the fourth night had passed, Louis was proud to admit that it only took him thirty-minutes to brew himself some tea. Sure, it didn't sound like all that much of an accomplishment to someone from his own time, but it was not as easy as some would think to make a fire without matches. He deserved at least some credit. 

However, just before Louis could congratulate himself on a job well done and scamper out of the kitchen with his cup of tea in hand—as he had done every morning prior—something stopped him in his tracks. Little ways outside the kitchen door was a person, singing no louder than a hum a tune that Louis had never before heard. However, unlike how it usually was, it was not on account of Louis' pop-culture ignorance that he did not recognize the tune. 

The song, albeit beautifully melodic to Louis' ears, was sung in what sounded like another language. Not a single lyric could Louis confidently discern, even after the heavy wooden door of the kitchen swung open and the singing person stepped inside. 

With only the moon, the stars, and the dying embers of the hearth fire to give light to the small kitchen, Louis could just barely make out the rough outline of the person's figure in the dark. As far as he could tell, they were much taller than he, who stood at a meager five feet and seven inches. Though they were certainly no taller than six feet, the height that Louis believed the ceiling of the kitchen cellar reached. Their head just nearly, but not quite, grazed the wooden beams above them. Though they paid no mind to the ceiling above them. They neither hunched their back nor hesitated when moving about. 

And that was not the only thing that appeared not to affect them. Unlike Louis, who had trouble seeing in the darkness of the kitchen, the person moved about so purposefully that Louis half wondered if they wore night-vision goggles. Though Louis himself was unsure if his lack of seeing was simply because he had not yet acclimated eyes, or if the person simply knew the layout and contents of the kitchen better than he. Louis sided with the latter. After all, it had taken Louis an exuberant amount of time to even locate the tea his first morning in the kitchen, and they, in comparison, appeared entirely familiar, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets with ease. They appeared to know exactly where and what they were looking for—what that was, Louis did not know—so much so, that they did not even notice his presence. Or, at the very least, did not care to comment or acknowledge the fact, physically or vocally. 

Louis dared not move the slightest muscle. 

Not even to cross his arms over his nether regions, which, even under the cover of his night-shift and the darkness, felt inappropriately exposed in another person's presence. He knew his best option was just to sit quietly and wait till they left, but the thought of it left a pinched expression on his face. Already Louis could feel his tea growing cold against the palm of his hand, and for all he knew, by the time they finally left, it would be utterly undrinkable. It would be just as Niall liked to call it back home, a cup of "gross leaf puddle water". But as Louis sat frozen in Mr. Abrahams' kitchen in nothing but a thin linen dress, he realized he did not have many other options to choose from if he intended to drink his tea while it was still warm. If he tried to leave or even introduce himself, it would surely startle the person. But what other choice did he have? Louis could either have cold tea or give the other person a heart attack. 

_ Heart attack it is, _ Louis thought to himself after a second of deliberation. 

But before Louis could take even one step towards the door, the person stopped dead in their search and silenced the hum in their throat. 

"Here I thought you never shut up," the person spoke into the darkness with their manly voice, their back still turned to Louis. "I mean, who knew Teach could actually be quiet? Not me. I thought shutting up just wasn't something you knew how to do." 

Louis rolled his eyes in the darkness.  _ Damn _ ,  _ I should have given him a heart attack when I had the chance. _

"Hardy har, Harry, you're so funny," Louis sighed in exasperation. "But I'll have you know that I can be quite quiet." 

"Maybe when you want to be, Teach, but just never when you're around me," Harry chuckled to himself, his back still turned to Louis as he grabbed some unknown object from one of the cabinets. "I mean, I was so surprised that you didn't say some kind of sassy comment to me when I walked in that for a half a second, I thought I was just seeing things. Like you were just a trick of my eyes in the dark. But then I realized visions don't twiddle their thumbs or ruffle their hair as much as you do." 

  
  
  


"I didn't want to interrupt," Louis spoke plainly as he rested his tea on the long table before him and crossed his arms over his chest. "What was it anyway? The song, I mean?" 

Harry grunted as he rummaged around the kitchen. He sounded exhausted—and drunkenly annoyed—and he had every right to be, considering everything. 

Though Louis hated to admit it, after seven days of wandering the halls of Mr. Abrahams' manor, Louis had come to accept that what had happened to him and Harry was not as he previously thought. It was neither a coma dream, nor an elaborate prank, but—dare he say it—time travel. It was the only explanation that seemed to progressively make "sense" the more days that passed. Though nothing about their current situation made any real "sense." They knew they had—dare he repeat it—time traveled, but they had no possible inkling as to how to get back home. 

That was where Harry came in. 

Though he was initially hesitant to even listen to Louis' plan, or "homework" as he called it, it did not take much convincing on Louis' part to get Harry to help when he informed him that alcohol was involved. Louis hardly had to threaten him with a lecture to get him to go out to the tavern and look for intel. Granted, Harry had had little success as of yet, but Louis was hopeful. His plan had to work. It just had to. And If it did not, well, Louis didn't even wish to think about it. 

“I didn’t think anyone would be awake still.”

"You thought there would be no one awake to hear you sing? Or to see you steal from Mr. Abrahams?" 

Though Harry chuckled softly to himself on the other side of the small kitchen, his laugh rang so clear in Louis' ears, that for a second, he thought Harry had moved to stand beside him. There was hardly any other noise to drown it out, besides the distant sound of insects and animals outside. Absolutely no sound came from within the house, not even the ticking of a clock or a squeak of a floorboard. 

"If I'm stealing from Mr. Abrahams, then what do you call what you're doing? Huh, Mr. Goody-two-shoes? Just borrowing?" Harry whispered with a laugh as he moved to place his findings on the table between them. "Besides, Mr. Abrahams already said it was okay. Same with the lady from the kitchen, she's the one who showed me where everything was. ”

“You couldn’t have done this in the morning? This scavenger hunt of yours?”

Harry chuckled once more. "Maybe Teach, if it weren't so dark, you would understand… you would see why I am here. Or at least, you would see one of the reasons why I'm here right now, desperately in need of...things." 

"Then, by all means, enlighten me," Louis spoke before taking a sip of his tea. Without either milk or sugar and a little on the lukewarm side, her tea was about as good as he expected. It was not "leaf puddle water" by any means, though Louis doubted a lover of tea, would ever humor drinking it. 

Yet another sentiment Louis discovered he held, no matter the century he was in. Oh, how he missed drinking other beverages than Mr. Abrahams' tea. No one should ever take for granted the number of readily available beverages, whether in supermarkets or at restaurants. Absolutely no one. 

Without a word spoken by either, Louis watched on as Harry's shadowy form lit a single candlestick with the dying embers of the hearth. And though it produced only a smidge more light than the dimmest of lightbulbs, when the candle was fully ablaze, Louis could finally see Harry as more than just a general outline.

No longer slicked back into a low ponytail—Harry's chosen hairstyle for the past week—his wild curls hung just long enough to brush the curves of his cloth-covered shoulders. Harry wore neither a jacket nor a waistcoat, but he did every other item; dirty knee-breeches, grass-stained trousers, a loose kerchief, and a sweat-soaked beige linen shirt. He looked terribly disheveled, just as Harry had looked whenever he worked on the farm back at the museum. Louis almost could say that Harry exuded an air of handsome ruggedness where he stood, disheveled in his period outfit—which always fit his figure well—but then Louis saw Harry's face. 

When Louis first saw his face in the candlelight, he could not help but gasp. Harry Styles had not been kidding. He truly  _ was _ in desperate need of whatever he found in Mr. Abrhams’ cabinet. 

“Teach, did you know that there’s no such thing as sunscreen in 1773?”

Every square inch of Harry's skin, not covered by some form of cloth, was a deep shade of red. Even in the dimness of the light, there was no hiding that Harry resembled more that of a cooked lobster, than a human. And, if one could believe it, that was not even the worst of his condition. Had Louis not known Harry had a sunburn, Louis would have presumed that someone had carved straight into Harry's nose with a dull knife. It was strikingly mutilated as if the sweltering heat of the sun's rays had tried to melt his skin right off his face like an ice cream cone. 

"Oh, please tell me you plan on seeing a doctor," Louis gulped, fighting back the urge to spew his guts on the table between them. "There must be one in town, right? Or that one who had seen your arm the first day?" 

"Yeah right, Teach," Harry spoke with a laugh as he gently placed the candlestick back onto the table and returned to his inventory. "I mean, even if we were able to go get a doctor to come see me at this time of night, they'd just tell me the same thing Elisha told me when he was bringing us back here." 

Even in the darkness, Harry Styles could see the look of confusion on Louis’ face: wrinkled nose, pursed lips, and knit eyebrows. 

"Oh, do I know something you don't, Teach? Do I know more history than you? My, my, this is fun. This is amazing. Is this how you feel all the time? Like you're smarter and better than everyone else? Hmmm, now I can understand why you've always been such an ass," Harry spoke with a flick of his tongue in Louis' direction. 

"Oh yeah? Huh, then what's been your excuse all these years, Harry? Cause as far as I'm aware, you've been an ass for as long as I've known you. Not just tonight." 

At Louis’ words, Harry quickly twisted his head to look over his shoulder and shoot Louis a penetrative gaze. 

“You know, if you keep insulting me, I won’t tell you what I learned, Teach.” 

Louis rolled his eyes. “Harry, I—”

"And don't say you don't care. I know you do. I can see it on your face. You're making the same face you made when the museum received that new newspaper collection, and Sarah Smith beat you to seeing it first. You were so, so jealous," Harry chuckled to himself as he moved about the kitchen. “You’re just  _ dying _ to know what little historical tidbit I learned. I can tell, it's killing you that I might know something you don't. Am I wrong?" 

Louis wanted nothing more than to tell Harry that he was wrong, that Louis didn't have a burning desire within himself to know what it was Harry had learned. But deep down, Louis knew there would be no use to it—were he to deny it, Harry would know he was lying anyway. And thus, as Louis imagined, it was probably best to just be a loser in Harry's eyes, than an uninformed loser at that. 

“Fine then, oh wise one, what do you know? Teach me, please. Save me from my ignorance.” 

Harry couldn’t help but release a chuckle. 

"Now, that? That I could get used to," Harry spoke matter-of-factly with a smirk. "Well, if you really want to know, according to Elisha, all one needs to cure sunburns is a boiled mixture of half a pint of milk, a gill of lemon juice, a spoonful of brandy, white sugar, and rock allum." 

“Hrmph”

Was the information interesting? Yes. Was it worth practically throwing himself at the feet of Harry Styles for? No, probably not. Did Louis regret it? That depended on whether or not Harry remembered the night the following morning. And something told Louis that Harry would not—thankfully. 

"Well, I hope you have luck finding what you need," Louis whispered into his cup of tea, his other arm slung across his nether-regions. Though Harry Styles could surely find white sugar, brandy, and even milk within Mr. Abrahams' opulent estate, so long as he was willing to take a midnight trip to milk a cow, Louis had no clue how he could ever come into possession of either lemon juice or rock allum—whatever that was. Louis had never once come across it in any of his research. "Except for the Brandy. I've got a feeling you've had enough brandy for the night." 

Harry was positively inebriated. 

Though he stood roughly five feet away from Louis, with the large wooden table between them, Louis had no trouble smelling the alcohol on his breath. 

"Yeah, well that was all Elisha's fault, actually. Blame him. He wanted to play drinking games until the sun came up. But if you ask me, the brandy at the tavern wasn't even that good. Honestly, it tasted like  _ actual _ piss. Definitely not as good as the stuff Mr. Abrahams keeps in his office," Harry spoke with a slight slur of his words and a chuckle as he moved to crouch down by the hearth and start to build his fire. Thankfully for him, Louis had already done most of the work for him already. It took Harry no time at all to build upon the embers of Louis' fire—with a pile of sticks and pine needles—and get a glorious blaze going. "It was a real shame." 

"So I take it the night went well? You were able to be productive in finding intel?" Louis asked with a sigh in between sips of his tea. Though he already knew what the answers would be, he could not stop himself from asking. If only to see Harry's reaction. 

Still crouched in front of the fire, with his back to Louis, Harry became rigid at Louis' words. His shoulders straightened, his back tensed up, and his movements of tending the fire became slow and robotic. 

“No,” Harry spoke gruffly. 

“No, what?”

Harry released a long and laborious sigh—no doubt thinking that he was far too drunk to be having the conversation at hand. He probably had hoped to tell Louis the news the following morning, when he had surely sobered up and recovered from his hangover. Either that or he had hoped never to tell Louis at all. But unfortunately for Harry, he did not always get what he hoped for. No one ever really did. That was the beauty and tragedy of life. 

_ Life sucks _ , Louis couldn’t help but think to himself as he watched Harry slowly rise from his crouched position and brace himself for what he was sure to hear. 

"No, I didn't get any information," Harry whispered, his head bowed and his eyes looking at his feet. "Other than the sunburn treatment recipe, I learned nothing new." 

Louis is not surprised by any of which Harry spoke. He knew Harry would learn nothing. He knew the night would be a bust. He knew that tonight would not be the night they would go home. Nor even would tomorrow night, or the night after that, or the night after that. But that did not mean that what Harry said did not have an impact on him. Though Louis knew he would feel disappointed and dejected from Harry’s reply, that did not stop him from feeling  _ disappointed _ and  _ dejected _ . Nor did it stop the frown that immediately graced his face, and the tears welling in his eyes. 

“But you know, there’s always tomorrow, Teach. You never know.”

"Yeah. Yeah, your right Harry, you never know," Louis spoke solemnly as he rose from his stool, teacup in hand, and moved to stand at the entrance of the kitchen. "But, um, I'm tired, so I'm going to go to bed. The tea's not really doing much for me. Which, uh, if you want...I made  _ way _ too much of by accident. And I know it'll be cold, but I put it in a kettle on the table just in case. So you know, knock yourself out if you want." 

A faint smile spreads across Harry’s face. 

"Thanks, yeah actually, that would be great. Might help sober me up enough to...make whatever this _concoction_ is,” Harry spoke with a laugh as he grabbed Louis’ abandoned kettle of tea and hung it above the hearth. “And you might not know this, Teach, but I actually have a cup of tea _every_ _night_ before bed. Helps me sleep, you know? Or at least sometimes it does. Well...it used to, not really anymore. But I still drink it, you know? Habit and all. My mom, she used to make it for me every night when I was a kid..." 

Harry trailed off, staring dreamily off into the distance past where Louis stood—as if he wasn't really there with him in that kitchen. And maybe, in Harry's eyes, he wasn't, not really, anyway. Though he addressed Louis when he spoke, the words and sentiments he spewed sounded more like the ramblings of an internal monologue than a late-night confessional—spoken to fill the void of awkward silence between two strangers.

_ Strangers? _ Louis had thought to himself with a grimace.  _ Strangers? That can’t be right. _

The word had sounded so wrong to Louis— so "not" the word to describe what Harry and Louis were to one another—but the more Louis thought about it, the more appropriate the word seemed. Because, yes, at the end of the day, when all was said and done, that was what they were to each other. Strangers. Though Louis and Harry had known and worked alongside each other for years, little did either really know about the other. 

Sure, Louis knew the most obscure surface level of stuff, like that Harry loved Sam Adams beer and hot dogs and absolutely loathed any and all things to do with history, but that was about it. Louis did not know when Harry's birthday was—most likely in the off-season since he has never seen him celebrate it—or his genuine likes or dislikes, his favorite childhood memories, his fears, who his first crush or first kiss was, what the name of his first pet was, or what his relationship was like with his parents. Hell, until that moment, Louis did not even know if Harry even had parents. Well, he  _ assumed _ Harry did, but in all his years working with Harry, Louis had never, not once, caught a single glimpse of the people who had raised such a person. And now, after hearing the way Harry spoke of his mom, Louis was nervous to think he wasn't that far off with his previous assumption. 

Louis swallowed, hard. 

It was clear to Louis, and Harry, that neither knew the other well enough even to humor the idea of having such a personal conversation. At least not yet. 

Thus, in the silence of the kitchen, Louis hardly knew at all how to continue the conversation, but thankfully for him, he was not even given the opportunity to try. Before Louis could even open his mouth to utter a single word in response, Harry had already cut him off with a shake of his head and a clear of his throat.

"Anyway, the lady who works here, what' s-her-face, she usually is the one to help me brew it or whatever. I don't really like the taste, no offense to Mr. Abrahams, but it's something, right? And I didn't think I'd have any tonight, cause it's so late and she's most definitely asleep, so… thank you. I guess. Or whatever." 

_ Thank you? Thank you?  _

Though the room may have been blanketed in a shroud of pitch darkness, Louis knew that Harry could see the confusion on his face as he digested what Harry had said.  _ Thank You? _ It was all too much for Louis to process.  _ And that was  _ not even a joke or use of hyperbole, it truly was all too much—in more ways than one. After all, it was not exactly  _ the fact that  _ Harry had thanked him that sent Louis into a daze—though that was part of it—but the fact that Harry’s late-night ramble might have been, quite literally, the most Louis had ever heard Harry speak before. 

It was like the curtains had finally been drawn back on a tinted window. It may not have been everything, but it was certainly a lot more than nothing. It was  _ something _ , and that was more than Louis had ever hoped, or thought, he would ever live to hear. 

And though Louis wished nothing more than to comment on it, to poke and prod Harry until even the tinted layer of the window was gone as well (and it was open enough for the sun to shine through), Louis did not. So although he had a million questions burning on the cusps of his lips, a million comments, a million sentiments to be shared, all he could bring himself to say was a single joke.

"Harry Styles likes tea, I would never have guessed. I thought the only drink in your vocabulary was beer." 

Harry chuckled softly to himself. Though he did not say it in explicit words, his one light chuckle, told Louis that he was pleased Louis had not gone further. That he was pleased that Louis had kept the conversation light. And that he had kept it as just one between Teach and Harry Styles, strangers and nothing more.

"Yeah, well, no matter how hard I've tried, I can't just live off beer now, can I?" Harry spoke as he slowly stirred a spoon in the now simmering pot of tea. "I thought you were smart. Teach, you should know that." 

“Were?”

"Don't, just don't," Harry responds with a harsh laugh." Don't fish for a compliment, Teach, you know you'll never catch anything. I will never give you that kind of satisfaction." 

Louis simply stuck his tongue out at the other boy. “It was worth a try.”

“Never gonna happen”

"Never say never, Harry. I mean a month ago, you would have said the same about time travel, and now look at us," Louis chirped as he sipped from his cup of tea. "One day, I'll get a compliment from you, mark my words. And who knows, maybe I'll even manage to learn more about you other than the fact that you like tea and beer." 

"Maybe, maybe, but I think you knowing that I like tea is enough for tonight. I mean, if I told you any more, I'm afraid I'd have to kill you." 

“Oh, well I’d hate for that to happen. I’d very much not like to die.”

"And I'd very much not like to kill you," Harry slurred quickly back in response. A little too quickly. The moment the words left his mouth, the laughter in Harry's eyes and the smile on his face instantly slipped away and vanished. From Louis' perspective, it looked as if Harry regretted what he said, but not because he didn't mean what he said. In fact, quite the opposite. It was like what a wise old man once said: "a drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts." 

Perhaps, deep down—very deep down, beneath years of pent up loathing—Harry did not hate Louis as much as he once did. And Louis was stunned to find that he felt the same. He may not have particularly liked Harry, not at all, but he didn't hate him either. It was an odd feeling, but a welcome one at that—considering the circumstances and all. They should, at the very least, be cordial. 

"So, if you won't tell me any more tonight, then what about tomorrow night? I mean might as well, if you think about it. If you're going to have tea anyway, and I'm going to too, might as well just have tea together. Right? Be more than just two passing ships in the night." 

“Yeah, maybe” Harry responded in a hushed whisper. “Thanks again, for the tea by the way.”

Still standing in the doorway, Louis silently nodded his head in Harry's direction, as if to say "your welcome." It wasn't much, but that small interaction, that small nod of his head, felt significant. It felt like for the first time since they had first met some three years ago, Louis and Harry could actually, just maybe, get along and be civil. Maybe they would not be friends, but at the very least, acquaintances. 

_ Maybe. Just Maybe.  _

And it was because of that small maybe, that, just as Louis was about to duck out the door and scurry back to his room, he found the vulnerability within himself to stop dead in his tracks and ask Harry one last question before he left.

“What was that song you were singing?”

"What song?" Harry asked in confusion with a grunt, seemingly already done with their conversation and interaction as he started to mix the sugar and lemon juice—found in a small glass jar in one of the cupboards—together. He did not even look Louis' way as he spoke, too focused on the important task at hand. 

“The one you were singing when you came in? It was beautiful. What was it?”

As soon as the words left Louis' mouth, Harry's hand froze mid-stir, and he raised his eyes from the bowl to meet Louis' gaze. 

With the dimness of the room and the redness of his face, Harry Style's expression was nearly undecipherable for Louis to discern. Was it sorrow he saw flicker across his eyes? Happiness at the recollection of a memory? Louis, to his confusion, would never know. Before he could even open his mouth and ask if anything was the matter, Harry revolved back to his smiling and irritating self. 

“Goodnight, Teach, see you tomorrow.” 

⚡⚡⚡⚡

They did not have tea together the following night. Or the night after that, or the night after that, or any night after that. No matter how late Louis had waited up, Harry never once showed. The cup of tea Louis had prepared for him always left untouched and cold—nothing more than "leaf puddle water" by the time the sun had risen. 

And the sun had risen seven more times on Louis' lonely form, fallen asleep at the kitchen table before Louis had finally stopped making Harry a cup of tea altogether. And eventually, even Louis himself stopped showing up for late-night tea. 

  
  



	11. The Green Dragon Tavern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I said I would update this on the 10th and I am proud to admit that I stuck to that deadline! Woo! Also, this chapter is long, I'm going to admit I got a little carried away, yet again. Hopefully not too long that it is boring or anything. Hopefully. 
> 
> Anyway, I want to hear from y'all, so please feel free to comment. I want to know if you like the direction I'm going in or the characterization or any suggestions, anything. 
> 
> Also, I know that this is a very slow burn but I assure you, we are almost at the moment when they toe the line into friendship. I swear.
> 
> I will be updating every Friday, so stay tuned!

August 10th, 1773

Rain poured down on the city of Boston, but by the sheer number of people congregated in the Green Dragon Tavern, one would have thought it was acid that fell from the sky that night, not water.

Roughly sixty men—and even a rare few women—gathered within the rustic confines of the tavern's basement alongside Harry, and as he suspected, dozens more on the restricted floors above. To say the tavern was crowded would be a massive understatement. It was almost as if they were sardines in a can, all crammed together at the large wooden tables, elbow to elbow, and hip to hip. They hardly even had enough space to breathe—though that may have been a blessing in disguise considering the air quality in the basement. All there was for anyone to breathe were fumes: thick, humid recycled air that tasted faintly of grease and alcohol. 

The basement of the Green Dragon Tavern truly was a  _ melting _ pot of  _ people _ —emphasis on both melting and people. 

All throughout the basement were people from all different walks of life. 

There were travelers; there were enlightened thinkers, there were Backgammon players, there were drunkards, there were those who only sought shelter from the rain, there were college graduates, there were British soldiers, there were locals, there were entertainers, and as always, there was Harry. 

_ Always _ . Never would anyone find Harry  _ not _ spending his nights at the Green Dragon Tavern. It was practically a second home with how much and how often he frequented it. For the past couple of weeks he had spent in the eighteenth century, nearly every single night he had ventured between the manor and one of the city's finest tavern—but not for the reason he was supposed to. 

Contrary to what Louis may have naively believed, Harry's recent outings to the Green Dragon Tavern were not to gather intel, but solely for his own personal amusement. It had been weeks since he had thought about, let alone followed Louis' "plan." Though, in his defense, it was not like he could do much of "looking for intel" anyway. If there  _ were _ people out there who had the kind of information Louis desired—and that was a big "if"—they were more likely to be on the upper floors of the tavern than with the rest of the city on the lower floor. And though the Green Dragon Tavern, which looked more like a multi-story house from the outside than a typical bar, was technically open to the public, the upper floors were strictly restricted from people like Harry—dumb non-masonic plebs. Their words, not his. 

Thus, with a sigh, Harry took a long swig from his mug of flip—a burnt and bitter tasting mixture of beer, molasses, and rum—and turned his attention away from the crowd and toward the mud-coated floor. When Harry had first entered into the tavern's basement two weeks prior, he had initially thought the floor was simply made of dirt, but upon further inspection, he discovered glimpses of wooden slats underneath the inches of grime. God only knew how many years and how many patrons it took to collect it all. It was  _ disgusting _ —but not nearly enough to keep Harry from coming. 

Harry silently finished off his mug and motioned to the barkeep for another. He still had a couple more hours left in the night before he could return to the manor and reconvene with Louis to tell him that he had found nothing new. 

_ "Don't worry about it, Teach, there's always tomorrow,"  _ Harry could hear himself saying later that night before he'd slink off to his room and inevitably try and fail to sleep. 

Between his late nights at the taverns, Mr. Abrahams' early morning breakfasts, and the inescapable echo of Louis' weeping and wailing from down the hall, Harry had hardly slept more than a handful of hours each night. (Tea could only do so much). And though the night was not yet over, Harry already knew that that night would surely be no different. No one in his vicinity, including the girl who sat beside him, would say or do anything of note to give him the full night's sleep he desired. Hell, probably not even enough for an hour nap. 

"Goddamn," Harry mumbled quietly to himself, purposefully unheard by all those around him, including the girl beside him, Emma—or was it, Emelia? Ella? Eliza? Eleanor?

Oh well, whatever her name was, she was around his age and rather pretty, if not in a plain sort of way. In the dim lighting of the tavern, Harry could see that she had dark brunette hair pulled tight under her cap, a light band of freckles on the bridge of her nose, big brown eyes, and lips so plump it was a shame they ever refused to close. She sure did talk a lot for someone with such a forgettable name. Despite his apparent disinterest, she continued to tell Harry her quite lengthy and quite dull story about her recent days of travel on the road. And to say "boring" was putting it mildly. It was more tedious than even Louis' lectures had been—and that was saying something. 

Harry silently cursed himself for her presence. He only had himself to blame. 

He had stupidly thought that her company would offer some semblance of entertainment or, at the very least, some form of satisfaction. But oh how wrong he had been. He was practically kicking himself under the table for having been so charming to invite her over. Why, oh, why, did God have to make him so charming and sociable? It was a curse, really. 

_ God, at this point, I'd rather even have Louis as company than this bore,  _ Harry thought to himself with a groan. 

Whatever-her-name-was continued to speak beside him, though Harry did not care to strain his ears to listen. With a sigh of both defeat and exhaustion, Harry leaned forward in his wooden chair, placed his elbow upon the table, rested his chin in the palm of his hand, and waited—both for the arrival of his next mug of flip and for the night to finally end. 

⚡⚡⚡⚡

"Hey, Harry… Harry…Harry…"

To the surprise and fascination of all those around him, it was not the singing of the traveling entertainers nor the racket of the nearby debates that ultimately awoke Harry from his slumber—as they had wagered—but the words of a soft-spoken young man and a light shake of his shoulder. 

"Hey, Harry… Harry…Harry... it's time to wake up now," the man had spoken in a sing-song voice, anonymous in the darkness of Harry's closed eye-lids.

"No," Harry moaned groggily, still borderline asleep where he lay. "Five more minutes."

"If you think for one second I'm going to let you sleep five more minutes, you're insane," the man spoke with a light chuckle. "Just how many drinks did you have tonight?"

"Not nearly enough," Harry muttered back with a groan and a pout of his lips, distressingly annoyed with the faceless man who had awoken him from his slumber. "Not nearly damn enough." 

"Well, I'd beg to differ," the man spoke once more. "As would anyone else here, I bet."

With a groan once more, Harry miserably accepted the fact that, no matter how much he wished otherwise, he probably would not be getting any more sleep. Thus, slowly but surely, Harry raised himself from the grimy wooden table and forcibly opened his eyes to the dim lighting of the tavern's basement. 

Instantly, Harry wished he had not—as the man standing before him was not just  _ any _ inconsiderate man, but Louis Tomlinson himself. 

_ Damn. This night just can't get any worse, can it? _

"Well, hello, Mr. Jackanapes," Harry yawned nonchalantly as he stretched back into his chair and wiped away the drool that had dried at the corner of his mouth. Though he was not entirely sure what the word "jackanapes" actually meant, he had heard it thrown around in the tavern enough to know that it was far from a compliment. "What are you doing here? Come to suck away all my fun, huh?"

"And even after a nap, you're still an asshole," Louis spoke with a chuckle as he stood before Harry and awkwardly fiddled with the cuffs of his coat jacket and the nape of his neckerchief. Harry was unsure if it was the humidity of the tavern that made Louis appear so uncomfortable or if it was Harry's presence that elicited the response. Perhaps it was both. "And no, believe me, Harry, I'm not here to "suck your fun" or whatever the hell you've been doing the last couple of hours. I'm here to, you know, do my job. Ever heard of it?"

Harry swallowed dryly. 

"Who's to say I haven't been doing my job?"

"Maybe the fact that you've been asleep in this corner for the last three hours," Louis spoke as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

"Well what can I say, Teach, other than the fact that I was just in desperate need of a nap after working so hard finding intel," Harry huffed, a tad louder than he had intended, as he instinctively ran his fingertips over his newfound pink-tinted scar—stark against his tan skin. Though he would never admit it to the man, thanks to whatever Dr. Warren had done, his injury had healed well enough. It still hurt when he dressed or moved a little too much, but it no longer scabbed or bled through his dressing. "I mean, geesh. I didn't know napping on the job was against the law. Sue me." 

Louis chuckled mirthlessly to himself. 

"Oh please, Harry, don't play dumb, I know for a fact that you have been written up on more than one occasion for taking naps on the bed in the Bixby House."

"It's their own fault for making that bed so damn comfortable," Harry spoke with ease, staring Louis straight into his eyes. "I mean, do they honestly expect me not to want to sleep in that bed after a long day working at the farm? Come on, Teach. Come on. You know that I'm right."

"No, I do not," Louis spoke with a sigh as he shook his head and placed his hands on either side of his cinched waist. "I mean, by that logic, I guess, it's the innkeeper's fault for making that table so comfortable."

"Maybe," Harry teased with a waggle of his eyebrows as he leaned back in his chair—his hands linked behind his head and an amused grin plastered on his face. 

"You're ridiculous, Harry. You know that, right?" 

"No? You don't say. Am I? Well, would a ridiculous man do this?"

Without breaking eye contact with Louis, Harry impulsively leaned forward and grabbed hold of the nearest mug of ale—this time, it was cider, not flip—and took a long deep swig. Looking back on it now, it was probably not the wisest idea—God only knew what may have happened to that ale while he was asleep—but at that moment, Harry did not care. If he got sick, he got sick. If he died, he died. All that mattered to Harry was Louis' horrified reaction. 

It was priceless, to say the least. 

With a grimace, a wrinkled nose, furrowed brows, and a crease in his forehead, Louis looked positively perplexed by the man sitting before him. Precisely as Harry intended.  _ Perfect.  _

"I'm afraid so, yes."

"Well, if I'm so ridiculous, Teach, then why are you even here?"

"Well, I always threatened that I would come here one day and check-in, maybe try a bit of espionage myself," Louis spoke as he gingerly slicked back any stray wisps that had escaped his oiled quiff. "And you probably thought I was bluffing, I thought so too. But tonight, well if you can believe it, I officially ran out of tears, so I thought—"

"No, I mean, what are you even doing here, with me? Why come over here and bug me? Why wake me up?"

Louis stood frozen—his mouth hung open, mid-word. 

_ He had not been expecting that.  _

"I, well," Louis stammered out with a slight laugh as he looked everywhere but in Harry's eyes. "I was chatting up some of the locals, you know trying to get some information and what-not, when out of nowhere, a girl just started screaming. And I mean,  _ screaming _ . She was all in hysterics, ranting and raving about how the man she was with had suddenly dropped dead. Can you believe that?"

_ Oh, no. _

"Teach, please don't tell me—"

"Oh, but I shall," Louis cut him off with a smirk. "I mean, just imagine my sweet, sweet surprise, when I came over here—with a couple of the local physicians in tow I might add—and found you. Not  _ dead _ , just royally passed out drunk. And I think you can only imagine the girl's surprise when we told her as much. She left in quite a huff. And soon after, so did everyone else."

_ I guess that explains what happened to her,  _ Harry thought to himself, thankful that she was no longer by his side. She may not have been the worst company he ever had—Brad and his father were still reigning champs in that competition—but there was little else he could positively say about either her or their interaction. 

"But not you?"

"No, I stayed and mingled with those who were left, you know, but they were basically just as intoxicated as you were," Louis spoke solemnly as he dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed his hand back and forth on the back of his neck. "Many of them weren't that much help or good company to have, but I couldn't really leave, so I stayed and kept interacting with them anyway to pass the time."

"Why couldn't you leave? I'm sure you could've made the last ferry back."

"I don't know. I guess I was worried that if I left you, something would happen to you, and I'd feel bad," Louis whispered. "So, I kept tabs on you throughout the night, you know, just to make sure no one tried to mess with you or anything. But after the crowd really dwindled and you were still asleep, I got bored so…" 

Though Louis spoke in nothing more than a hushed whisper, his words echoed in the space between the two men as loud and as un-ignorable as a car alarm. 

_ I was worried. I was worried. I was worried. I kept tabs. I kept tabs. I kept tabs.  _

Harry could hardly even think. It was all much too loud. Much, much, much too loud. 

With a groan, Harry took a large swig from his cider and swept his eyes across the room, desperate for a distraction. The tavern basement, just as Louis had said, was noticeably less crowded than it was before he fell asleep—close to all of the tables around him were empty. All that appeared to remain were a few vagrants and drunkards. 

And Harry  _ and _ Louis. 

_ I was worried.  _

_ Shit.  _

"You're not drinking," Harry spoke suddenly with a clear of his throat. It was less a question and more a statement of fact, but he was pleased when Louis answered him anyway. He was desperate to change the subject. In no way did he want Louis' words of worry to be the only ones that echoed around them. Nope. 

"Oh no, unlike you, Harry, I have the will," Louis teased in his best Old-timey British accent as he rooted his hands to his hips with a grand flourish. It was quite a performance—just absurd and silly and bad enough to dull the words echoing in Harry's mind long enough to let a faint smile spread across his face. 

"Okay, whatever you say,  _ narc _ ."

At Harry's words, Louis simply chuckled softly to himself. Back home, Louis might have cried at the insult, might have taken it sincerely to heart—as Harry had intended him to. But now, far from home and their old lives, Harry could see that Louis relished in those four simple letters. They were like a memory, a remembrance of how their life used to be. They were a stark reminder of just how a month prior, four weeks, they had been on opposing sides—Teach and Harry. And now...well, Harry didn't know what they were now. Certainly not friends, but certainly not enemies anymore.

_ I was worried. Shit. _

It was all very strange. 

"Fine, I may be a narc, but at least I'm a narc who actually gets shit done," Louis spoke matter-of-factly with a large smile that caused his eyes to squint and crinkle. "Unlike a certain somebody who was over here chatting up some girl and sleeping the night away, I actually did my job. If you can believe it, I even got some information from Captain Kelly." 

"Who?"

"Seriously, Harry? Captain Kelly? You know, the soldier, from our first night here? The one who brought us to Mr. Abrahams' manor? The handsome one? Ring any bells?"

"Excuse me, Teach, for being a little too preoccupied processing what the hell happened to us to remember the name of a random soldier," Harry quipped as he took another swig from his drink. "And he wasn't even that handsome."

Louis sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically at Harry's response. 

"Of course you would say that," Louis spoke accusingly. "You've got such an ego; you probably think no one is as handsome as you are."

"So, you think I'm handsome?"

For the second time that night, Louis rolled his eyes at Harry's words—because of course, he did. Harry would have expected nothing less or more from him. After all, Harry saying something annoying and Louis rolling his eyes in response was quite literally the crux and foundation of their "relationship"—if Harry could even call it that. It was no exaggeration to say that if Harry had a nickel for every time he had seen Louis' eyes roll in annoyance at something he had said, Harry would be a millionaire with a much different life. If that were the case, they certainly wouldn't have been in this situation now. But unfortunately for him, that was not how life worked. 

_ If only.  _

"Anyway, moving on," Louis drawled. "I was talking to Captain Kelley for quite a bit after you passed out. Most of our conversation was just about the normal topics, like fishing and wine and parties and land and what-not. Still, after a bit, I asked him if anything strange had happened recently or even perhaps since he had arrived in America."

"Strange?"

"Yeah, strange, you know, if people had come around claiming to have time-traveled or were just hanging around in non-period attire. Strange, like us."

"And what did he say?" Harry asked as he casually fiddled with his loose cravat, disinterest oozing from every word that escaped his mouth. He was not at all interested in hearing Louis' answer, but he knew Louis was eager— _ desperate  _ even—to spill everything he had learned to Harry, so he sucked it up and asked anyway. After all, it was not like any better alternative than to sit and listen to Louis ramble. The tavern's ale had most certainly run out, and all the competent people had already left the tavern, so it was the least Harry could do to just humor Louis and keep the conversation going. The very, very least. 

_ Jesus, when did this become my life? _

"He said that he hadn't seen anything all that strange or out-of-place over the years,  _ but _ ," Louis emphasized, brandishing his hands with a flourish and sporting a jubilant smile. "He told me of a woman who frequents this area that everyone claims to be a witch. He says she's rather strange and that if there is anyone out of the ordinary or out of place around here, it's her."

"A witch, really?" Harry guffawed. "Come, on Teach, just admit that you found nothing, and everything will be cool. I won't judge, I swear. There's no reason to invent this witch just to prove that you're better at espionage than me. Cause we all know, you aren't. It's a fact of life. The faster you accept it, the better."

"Puh-lease, Harry, you couldn't sniff out information even if it was laid right out on the table in front of you," Louis spoke. "And besides, he told me other stuff too."

"Oh, yeah, like what? What could this handsome soldier who apparently believes in witches possibly have told you?"

"Like I'd tell you that," Louis spoke with a huff as he crossed his arms across his chest. "Not after all that, nope. You don't deserve to know all the cool and interesting information I learned." 

"Dang it," Harry spoke sarcastically with a cocky smile and a wrinkle of his nose. "How will I continue to live if I don't have this information? Come on, Teach, please tell me. I'm  _ dying _ to know, just  _ dying _ ."

"You're an asshole. You know that, right?"

"I thought I was ridiculous?"

"You're a ridiculous asshole."

The two men, despite themselves, couldn't help but fall into a fit of laughter. One that was so all-consuming, it took them quite a bit of time to recover their breath, and even longer to form words and continue their conversation. 

"Okay, okay, fine, I can be an asshole sometimes—"

"More like all the time."

" _ Sometimes _ ," Harry spoke, breathless and giddy with laughter. "But I'm glad at least one of us had a productive conversation tonight. I'm glad at least something good came out of it all."

"But what about the girl?"

_ Girl? What girl?  _ Harry thought to himself as his eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

"Huh?"

"The one you were with? You know, the screamer? The one you supposedly dropped dead on?" Louis chuckled at the memory. 

_ Oh, her.  _

"What about her?"

"You're telling me that she told you nothing of interest? That you didn't have a productive conversation with her?" Louis asked, with his expression, visibly perplexed. 

"Obviously not, I mean, why do you think I fell asleep on her?" Harry spoke candidly with a light chuckle. "Believe me, she was quite boring. I really didn't get much out of it."

Louis' jaw dropped. 

"What? Bored? Harry, how? This is certainly a first. I mean, she was a very beautiful girl, and you're telling me that your interaction bored you? My, my how things have certainly changed since we came here. Suddenly beautiful girls are boring to Harry Styles," Louis teased with a smile. "I should alert the media. This is for sure headline news."

"Oh, screw you, Teach," Harry groaned as he flipped Louis off with both hands. "Besides, I'm surprised you'd even notice she was a beautiful girl considering you're, you know…"

Harry trailed off, instantly regretting ever having opened his mouth when he saw Louis' smile fall and the glimmer in his eyes falter. 

_ Shit. _

A blanket of silence encompassed the pair. And not the fun, peaceful kind of silence that they enjoyed over dinner. Nope, quite the opposite. It was the suffocatingly uncomfortable, tension-filled kind of silence—the absolute worst kind. Harry could hardly stand it. If he had the choice, he would much rather have had a police siren blare right into his ears than to sit in that silence with Louis at that moment. 

_ Shit. Why am I such an idiot? _

Harry moved to speak, to say something, anything to fill the silence—maybe even an apology—but before words could tumble out of his mouth, a rather stout and hairy man shouted from the other side of the basement that a "Mr. Louis Tomlinson's" room was ready upstairs, and the moment was gone. His time to say something had passed. 

At the mention of his name, Louis quickly cleared his throat and met Harry's eyes. 

"I should, uh..." Louis trailed off as he put one hand in his trouser pocket and motioned lazily towards the stairs with the other. "Uh, Mr. Abrahams gave me some money to rent a room since I didn't know how long this would take, and well, it's quite late. And just like you said, the last ferry left a couple of hours ago."

"Smart, Teach. Makes sense," Harry spoke as he looked down at the table and ruffled his fingers through his hair. It was still the same shaggy length it had been before they traveled a month prior, but Harry did not know for how much longer that could be the case. If they did not figure out their situation fast and soon, by the time they returned home, his hair could very well be long enough for a full-blown ponytail. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Did you not get yourself a room?"

"No, uh, I thought I would just rough it out here on the floor with the others," Harry whispered frankly as he motioned to the few people passed out sporadically around the tavern basement. "If they can do it, then why can't I?"

"Are you sure?" Louis asked, unsure, and disgusted as he looked down at the dirt-covered floor underneath his feet. "I mean, if you want, the floor in my room might be less...dirty than this one. And who knows, maybe they'll even be a second bed you can take. The sum Mr. Abrahams had been quite generous, according to the innkeeper."

The offer had been tempting, too tempting if Harry were honest. But no matter how much he wanted to say yes and spend the night,  _ not _ on the dirt-covered floor of the tavern, he still had enough wits about him to open his mouth and say instead, "No, it'll be fine, I swear. Thanks, though."

Upon hearing his words, the look of hurt flashed across Louis' piercing blue eyes. Or was it confusion? Or perhaps both? Harry did not know, but before he could ask, Louis' face softened, and his expression became neutral.

"Goodnight, Harry," Louis whispered with a nod of his head. "I hope I wasn't too much of a bore."

"Eh, I only fell asleep once." 

With a faint chuckle and a grin, Louis Tomlinson turned gracefully on his toes and walked away in the direction of the stairs, leaving Harry to sit, sad and alone with all the other lost souls—exactly where he belonged. 


	12. A Victim of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a day late. I tried to upload yesterday on Friday (my scheduled update day) but my wifi just was not having it. I promise, however, that next week the upload will be on time. After that, however, I am unsure. I moved back to college so I am swamped already with classwork. I will try to be consistent but please be patient. 
> 
> Also, Harry is mentioned, but not seen in this chapter. This is mainly a plot-heavy chapter. Sorry! But I swear he will be back next week with his very own POV.

August 22nd, 1773

"Louis, dear, please do  _ remember _ to mix in the Indian meal while the milk is still scalding," Mrs. Beall hollered from across the kitchen, emphasizing each word with a laborious hack to the piece of ham hock before her. "Then remember to leave it to cool before you add in the rest."

Louis nodded his head in the direction of the old woman. "Uh-huh."

Despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, it was no secret to anyone in the kitchen staff, including Mrs. Beall, that Louis was—to put it gently—inept at eighteenth-century cooking. Had he been left to cook unsupervised, without Mrs. Beall's careful instruction, Louis would no doubt have poisoned them all—or at the very least, burned the manor down to ash.

With an exasperated sigh, Louis silently wiped the sweat from his brow and looked once more at the recipe—or "receipt," as the kitchen staff called it. 

As far as Louis could decipher from the short handwritten passage in Mrs. Beall's personal cookbook, the Indian pudding he was instructed to make called for three pints of scalded milk, seven spoonfuls of "fine Indian meal" (table or teaspoon he did not know), seven eggs, half a pound of raisins, a "gill" of butter (whatever that was), and an unidentified amount of "spice" and sugar (or molasses, if one wasn't as wealthy as Mr. Abrahams). 

"Seems easy enough," Louis whispered to himself as he re-adjusted his thick linen apron and cautiously slicked back any stray wisps of hair behind his ears. If having poor cooking skills—and being a male in the kitchen—earned him a few chuckles behind his back, Louis could only imagine how the kitchen staff would treat him if he were to light his clothes or worse his hair on fire. Harry Styles' level of mockery, Louis was sure. 

_ Best to be cautious, _ he thought. 

Following Mrs. Beall's instructions, Louis gently poured the raw milk—fresh from the earliest morning milking—into a cast iron pot and hung it above the flickering flames of the hearth with a heavy thud. 

Louis exhaled in relief. His task might not have been nearly as easy as churning butter—his typical assigned cooking job whenever he was in costume at the museum—but it sure seemed a heck of a lot easier than whatever Mrs. Beall and the kitchen maids were tasked to do. No way did Louis want to even  _ think _ about preparing the ham hock. Just looking at it made Louis throw up a little in his mouth. And God only knew what would happen if he was forced even to touch it, or worse, carve off the grimy layer of creosote like what Mrs. Beall was in the process of doing. Louis would probably die on the spot—in a pool of his vomit. 

Thankfully, in all the days Louis spent in the kitchen under the care of Mrs. Bealle, the head cook for Mr. Abrahams, he had not been asked to do such tasks. Resigned to the farthest corner of the kitchen, Louis was most often instructed to prepare the sides of the meals: boiled vegetables (root cellar potatoes, various lettuce, beets), bread and butter, coleslaw, pickles, or applesauce. However, there were times—such as this morning—when Mrs. Beall allowed Louis to make the evening's baked good. 

So far, after a little less than a month in the kitchen, Louis had made only one other baked good. And well, suffice to say, his gingerbread did not taste as good as everyone had hoped—he had accidentally put in a dash or two more rose water than the receipt had called for. And suffice to say, the results were unfathomably inedible. No one dared eat it, not even Harry. 

Louis prayed the same would not be said of his pudding—for everyone's sake and his own. Louis was dreadfully aware of the fact that if he were to make yet another mistake of a dish, he would never again be given another opportunity. It was apparent that, depending on the results of his pudding,  Mrs. Beall could and would cash in on her ever-looming threat to revoke his invitation into the kitchen. Not that he'd blame her, though he'd still shed some tears. 

Ever so hesitantly, Louis dipped the tip of his pinky into the pot of milk—just as Mrs. Beall had taught him to test the temperature. To his delight, the milk was warmer than bathwater, but not yet scalding. He would have to wait at least five more minutes before he could move onto the next step. 

With a sigh, Louis dried his pinky on his apron and sat down on the nearest stool, inhaling the aroma of the kitchen as he did so.

Though the kitchen reeked of must, and animal fat, and cheese curds, and smoke, and an insurmountable amount of spices, when Louis closed his eyes, he could  _ almost _ pretend he was back home—that it was his mother and father cooking family recipes in their kitchen, not Mrs. Beall. Or even that it was him and Niall, making boxed mac and cheese in the staff manor kitchen on a Friday night (their tradition). 

He could  _ almost _ pretend.  _ Almost _ . 

Not completely, just  _ almost _ . 

With a sigh once more, Louis opened his eyes to find Mr. Abrahams' footman, Elisha, standing awkwardly in the doorway across from him. 

"Pray, what is it ya dern want?" Mrs. Beall huffed as she placed her grimy creosote covered hands on her ample hips. "You better not be here to get some food for yourself."

"Nay, I swear it, I've only come for Mister Tomlinson," Elisha stammered out, no doubt afraid of the formidable woman that was Mrs. Beall. "Someone is waiting for him in the library."

⚡⚡⚡⚡

"Don't puke. Don't puke. Don't puke. Don't puke," Louis chanted under his breath as he twiddled the folded piece of paper in her pocket—soddening it with the sweat of his hands with every movement he made. He knew that the ink would begin to bleed and smudge soon enough if he continued, but he could not bring himself to stop. Standing before the library door, with sweat pooling from every crevice of his being and nausea brewing in his stomach, Louis desperately  _ needed _ a distraction—even at the cost of destroying the important piece of paper in his pocket.

Mr. Abrahams had gifted Louis the piece of paper, upon his request, a week after their arrival. It was nothing  more than a glorified identification form, one that had only a tad bit of legal weight, but Louis felt insurmountably better having it on his person than not. It was like a security blanket, a fall-back in case Louis was ever to face any sort of trouble. The piece of paper —declaring himself under the charge of Mr. Abrahams—would hopefully grant him some semblance of safety and security. Emphasis on  _ hopefully _ . 

With a shaky breath, Louis released his tight grip on the piece of paper, finger by finger. 

_ Come on, Louis, you got this. Now or never. All you have to do is open the door.  _

As if in slow-motion, Louis hesitantly clasped his shaking left hand around the brass knob and twisted it until he heard the dreaded click. With a light push, the door opened into the library and the stranger that awaited him within. 

"I'm uh, afraid Mr. Abraham's is not here at the moment. Should I take a message for you?" Louis stammered out as he entered the library with his head bowed, internally cursing with every step he took. Of course the one day, there was a visitor at the manor, other than Captain Kelley, Mr. Abrahams, and Harry was away. They had taken the carriage not long after breakfast to pick up Harry's new jacket—commissioned by the local tailor after Harry spilled red wine on his other one earlier that week. It would be hours, around dinner time, before they were expected to return. 

_ Just my luck.  _

"Golly, no dear, I am well aware that Mr. Abrahams is not present," the stranger—an older woman spoke from where she sat in one of the library's many cushioned chairs. In the bright sunlight that poured in through the windows, she appeared to be no older than fifty years old, bearing a few noticeable wrinkles around her eyes and some grey hairs that sprouted from her hairline. She was not at all what Louis expected. She had fair blonde hair—fashionably powdered, no doubt—piled atop her head in an intricate and poofy configuration of curls, skin as pale as chalk, and cheeks painted a deep pink rouge. Even for her age, she was quite beautiful. Louis could not help but feel intimidated as he stood before her. In comparison to the woman's gown, a fashionable configuration of frills and pink silk, Louis' beige suit felt simple and plain. The woman clearly must have had access to money to afford such clothing, unlike Louis, who only had the leftover frocks of what he presumed to have been a collection of people: past employees or less fortunate relatives of Mr. Abrahams. For this moment alone, Louis regretted refusing the old man's offer to get a new suit tailored for him, like Harry. Louis internally kicked himself. "I am here for you, you see?"

_ Me? _

"Oh," Louis spoke as he awkwardly moved to sit across from the woman. "Well then, should I have someone make us some tea?" 

He knew the kitchen staff wouldn't mind the request, but deep down, Louis prayed the odd woman would not take him up on the offer. He already unloaded his pudding duty onto some poor girl, and he would feel insurmountably guilty if he was to take away yet another pair of hands just for some tea. 

"Quite clever, but that shan't be necessary. I only have so much time." The woman spoke in an accent that Louis could not quite place. It was not exactly an English accent, but it was  _ close _ . It sounded almost as if the woman had, years prior, heard a British person talk, and tried to imitate it based on memory. The way she pronounced certain words, and their vowels, was noteworthy for Louis to hear after so many weeks around the same accented people. He could understand the woman well enough but not without a few seconds to process. 

"I see," Louis whispered as he nodded his head and looked around the library, avoiding the strange woman's gaze as best as he could. 

Lining the walls on all four sides were massive oak bookcases, tightly packed with hundreds upon hundreds of leather-bound manuscripts and printed novels. Jonathan Swifts' Gulliver's Travels, the book Louis was currently halfway through, was included among them. It was not an enjoyable read—the writing was a little  _ dry _ for his taste—but whenever Louis was not working in the kitchen, he would lay upon the grand Turkish rug of the library and read it aloud to himself. And sometimes even Harry would come and listen to him read—interjecting every now and then with some witty commentary or a pretend snore. 

"I was well aware Mr. Abrahams had boarded a Mr. Tomlinson, but I was uncertain as to who you were. No one was. By all accounts, you were unreachable. Much unlike your companion Mr. Styles."

"I do not leave the manor often, no," Louis explained as he continued to avoid the stranger's gaze, focusing instead on trying to rub out a smear of pot black on the cuff of his sleeve.

_ Often? More like never.  _

In the month and a half, Louis had lived in Mr. Abrahams' company, he had ventured only once past the property line—the night he went to the Green Dragon Tavern. Occasional boredom aside, it was not like there was any reason for him too. Harry had his late-night rendezvous at the taverns, and Louis had his mornings in the kitchen. Even if he wasn't the one making the codfish cakes or the salt and molasses pork, it was still better than any alternative that awaited him outside. He had a purpose in the kitchen, something to do with his time, and for now, that was enough for Louis.

"I understand, being a stranger in a strange place is quite difficult," the woman smiled sweetly. "Where is it you are from, Mr. Tomlinson? If you do not mind me asking."

"Not far from here," Louis spoke as he continued rubbing at the stain. 

The woman chuckled softly to herself. 

"Maybe I should rephrase my words," the woman said once her laughter subsided. "When are you from, dear?"

Louis' fingers froze on his wrist. 

"What do you—"

"Now, now, there is no need for lying, my dear." the woman spoke as she leaned closer in her chair, like a gossiper in a beauty parlor. "I am probably the only person in this city, besides your friend Mr. Styles, that you do not have to lie to."

Louis stared blankly at the woman. 

_ What?  _

"My name is Mrs. Crane, dear, I'm a traveler from the year 1597." 

_ That explains the accent, I guess, _ Louis thought—among many other things, like the ever-repeating question " _ what?" _

"From your surprise, I assume you thought you were alone," she continued to speak, ignoring Louis' gaping mouth and wide eyes. "The only traveler."

"Something like that," Louis finally managed to squeak out. 

"I thought the same when I first traveled," Mrs. Crane spoke softly, her eyes in a haze as if lost in thought. "Though that was many decades ago now." 

_ Decades? _ Louis could have vomited right then and there. 

"Forgive me if I am mistaken, but I presume you did not intend to travel to this time, did you, dear?"

"Intend?"

"Quite right, silly me," Mrs. Crane chuckled. "I mean, why would you? You probably know the same as me with this strange and futuristic time."

"Futuristic?" 

Louis rolled his eyes at how simple-minded he must have sounded to the older woman before him. Louis imagined he sounded like a child just learning how to speak, only able to give one-word responses. But try as he might, he physically could not help it. His brain could hardly process the situation at hand enough to actually think of and utter more than one word at a time. What was he even to say anyway? 

"When are you from, dear?"

"1988," Louis stammered. 

"Golly me. Then you must know the history of this time, correct? You see, I am most unaware. I have no clue as to what this time brings."

Louis sighed. _ Finally, something I can answer. Finally, something I can speak on.  _

"How much time did you say you had, Mrs. Crane?"

⚡⚡⚡⚡

"... and then in the year 1783, the Treaty of Paris was signed, and the war for American Independence was finally over. Though it would not be until the Constitution was drafted at the end of the decade when all thirteen colonies would officially unite under one government and form The United States of America." 

Now it was Mrs. Crane's turn to stare blankly. 

"My is that all?"

"All the important stuff, yes," Louis beamed with a curt nod of his head. He had no clue as to how long he had been talking—ten minutes, perhaps? Twenty? Whatever the amount of time, it was long enough to get through a decade's worth of American history, starting with the Boston Tea Party in December of 1773. 

"Golly, what an eventful time in history I have found myself in," Mrs. Crane spoke with a giddy smile. "I am most impressed you were able to remember it all, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis would not have said he remembered it  _ all _ , but he accepted Mrs. Crane's compliment without correction. 

"I'm a teacher, of sorts, back home. Or was." Louis explained. "Though I think you are probably the first student I have ever had that did not fall asleep during my lecture."

"Zounds!" Mrs. Crane exclaimed as she straightened herself in her chair. "You must be pulling my tail, dear. I swear it, if my family were here they would be just as attentive as I."

"Oh, you have a family?" Louis frowned, ashamed that he had not yet asked his guest a question. He and his big mouth had taken up the entire interaction. "Where are they?"

The smile faded from Mrs. Crane's face. 

"I am not sure, you see… I lost my husband and one of my children before I traveled here. I have not seen them since."

"Oh," Louis whispered as he lowered his gaze to her lap. It was safe to say he had not expected the woman's response. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss Mrs. Crane. I pray that you'll see them again someday."

"Thank you, Louis, it means a lot for me to hear you say that." Mrs. Crane whispered as she reached out and took Louis' hand into her own. "Do you believe in destiny, dear?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe? I don't think I've ever really thought about it before."

"I think it is my destiny right now to be here. You may disagree, but I was brought here for a reason, the same as you and Mr. Styles was. And I pray that in due time, you will come to terms with your predicament Louis, as I have. You never know, this place could very well become your home, if you're careful."

Louis nodded his head in agreement, yet remained unsure—what could destiny possibly have in store for him here? Or Harry, for that matter? Whatever it was, he only hoped that it did not take decades for him to find out. 


	13. The Eureka Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a tad late, I've been busy with school and work! It's a short chapter so enjoy it while it lasts. I might be gone a little longer for the next chapter (but it will be worth it, you will SEE the development of their relationship clearly).

August 25th, 1773 

Harry did not know if it was because the old man was used to a life without the luxury of a portable space heater, or if the added flab of weight around his gut insulated his body, but Mr. Abrahams did not appear  _ at all  _ affected by the growing coldness of the night. His hunched frame did not shiver, his pale skin did not sprout goosebumps, his crooked teeth did not chatter, his dry lips did not voice any complaint, and his age-spotted hands did not pull his chair closer to the fireplace.

As far as Mr. Abrahams was aware, the fireplace was lit only as a means to see the game of cards on the table before them in the drafty office, not warmth. Or at least, so Harry assumed. Mr. Abrahams told Harry as much with a puzzled look—slanted eyes and an exaggerated frown—every time Harry waved his hands in front of the fire or inched his chair closer.

It was worth it, if only for a few brief seconds of comfort.

For what felt like the millionth time that night, Harry pulled his jacket tighter against his chest and smacked his lips together to keep his lips from chattering. If Harry found it chilly within the homey, albeit occasionally drafty, confines of Mr. Abraham's manor, Harry could only shiver at the thought of how it felt outside. Or worse, sailing on the Charles River. 

Harry couldn't really blame Elisha, one of Mr. Abrahams' servants, for refusing to brace the cold and serve as his navigator to Boston. Harry did, however, resent Elisa more than a little bit for marooning him to the boring confinement of the middle of nowhere, Charlestown. Harry couldn't help but feel just as lame as Louis, and he did not like the feeling one bit. Not one bit. It made him shiver even more than the cold if that was even possible. 

Harry sighed and looked down at his playing cards—simpler and less cartoonish looking versions of a modern deck—on the small wooden table between them. He had no cards in the trump suit. S _ hit _ . 

"I beg," Harry said, following the rules of the game Mr. Abrahams had drilled into his head. 

"Refuse," Mr. Abrahams replied as he scrapped their hands and dealt three more cards to them both. Three better cards, in Harry's case. 

With no chance of venturing out into the August night and visiting a Boston tavern or two, Harry had willingly surrendered to Mr. Abrahams' suggestion of playing a game of All Fours. It was complicated to grasp—it had taken them three games before they finally played all the way through without any breaks for questions—and a bit slow at times, but it was much better than just sitting up in his room or going to bed already. Besides, as old as Mr. Abrahams was, he was not poor company to keep. Unlike the millions of old people Harry had interacted with at the museum, Mr. Abrahams did not make any unnecessary small talk, and Harry appreciated the silence of their interaction. For most stretches of time, in the two hours they had spent holed up in his office, all that could be heard was the crackling of the fireplace and the squeak of the wooden chairs as they shifted their weight every now and then. 

"Okay, old man, that'll be our last game, you hear me?"

"You said that last game," Mr. Abrahams croaked, not bothering to look up from his cards and look into Harry's eyes. "And as I recall, the game before that, and the game before that, and the—"

"Well this time I mean it," Harry said with a dimpled smile as he and Mr. Abrahams laid one of their cards face-up on the table. Harry had a ten, Mr. Abrahams had a King. 

_ Damn.  _

Mr. Abrahams chuckled to himself as he gathered the cards and placed them in a pile face-down on the table. The old man had won close to probably a million tricks that night alone, and yet every time, without fail, he relished in the victory. 

_ What a sore winner. _

"I just think we probably should have stopped playing when Fallon left. It's been four games since then."

Like Louis, who had taken refuge in his room after all the dinner plates had been cleared, Captain Fallon Kelley had also opted out of playing cards. A fact that brought much dismay to Mr. Abrahams, who had first intended to play Brag or Whist, but with only himself and Harry playing, did not have enough players. So a two-person game of All Fours it was, with a rather lethargic Fallon sitting on the sidelines, laughing every so often at Harry's incompetence. No one, especially not Harry, had stopped him when he left, "feigning to be too tired from duty," and returned to his apartment next door. 

"Golly, well, if I were a wise man, I would be inclined to say that you are simply afraid of losing to an old man."

Harry chuckled despite the cold. "Well, if that was the case, I'd never have agreed to play in the first place. I haven't won a game yet."

Mr. Abrahams smiled wickedly. "Fine, you may retire, boy. But you owe me another round."

"Well, unless Elisha decides to man up, I don't think I'll be going to Boston anytime soon," Harry groaned as he gathered his cards, handed them to Mr. Abrahams, and rose from his chair for the first time in hours. Both his back and his bottom were stiff and sore. "So, rematch tomorrow night?"

"How can I refuse such a deal? Goodnight, boy."

In silence, Harry shook Mr. Abrahams' outreached hand—much bonier than he had expected—exited the office and meandered up the grand staircase, two stairs at a time. 

He had planned to simply go to his room and relax, maybe even start the book Louis had been nagging him to read—The something something Don-Quixote of somewhere or whatever the hell it was called—but something instead made him stop at Louis' door and enter. 

"How's it hanging, Teach?"

Louis only groaned back in annoyance. 

"Not hanging at all, I guess," Harry mumbled just above a whisper as he watched Louis, sitting as still as a statue on his bed, reading a book silently to himself. Harry, for sure, would not call what Louis did "hanging," or even relaxing for that matter. If anything, Louis looked rather uncomfortable where he sat upright against his headboard. It looked as if he was waiting for something to happen any second, like a person reading at a bus stop, ready to pack up and leave his room at a moment's notice. Though to call it "his room" would be a false statement. Sure, Louis slept and lived within those four walls—and had been for weeks—but upon further inspection, the room looked utterly unlived in. Little was moved or decorated, not even a single speck of dust. It was as if the room lay untouched since the day they arrived. 

"I'm not in the mood tonight, Harry," Louis groaned once more, not bothering to look up from his book. "Just go play another game of cards with Mr. Abrahams or something."

"You're never in the mood." 

Oh, if looks could kill. Louis burned a hole right through Harry's face with his pointed glare. 

_ Ouch. _

"Look, Teach, I'm sorry," Harry mumbled as he dramatically flung his arms down by his sides. "Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry I didn't go to the tavern tonight and played cards with Mr. A instead. Okay? I'm sorry. You happy?"

Louis stared blankly in Harry's direction, hardly any emotion beneath his eyes, yet a faint smile spread across his lips. 

"You know, those are two words I never thought I'd ever hear you say, let alone three times in one sentence," Louis spoke. "Who are you and what have you done with Harry Styles?"

"Haha," Harry chuckled as he clapped his hands together sarcastically. "Hilarious, Teach. You're such a comedian."

"Why thank you for finally noticing," Louis whispered solemnly as he played with the hem of his white linen undershirt. 

"Yeah, well, it only took me three years," Harry grunted as he spontaneously jumped and flopped down onto the bed beside Louis and quickly snatched the book from his hands, leaving Louis nothing to do but groan in protest. As far as Harry could read, given the worn-out and ancient nature of the cover, the book was titled "Captain Singleton." 

_ Yawn. _ Harry handed it back without reluctance.

"Well, my humor won't help us much anyway. I mean, let's face it, Harry, nothing probably would have come from you going to the tavern anyway. Nothing has and nothing ever will. It's just a waste of time, that's all."

"Teach—" Harry began to joke before he suddenly looked over and noticed a silent tear cascading down Louis' cheek. 

_ Oh shit,  _ Harry thought as he silently sighed and rolled his eyes. _ Great, if he actually starts sobbing, I won't get any sleep.  _

"Uh, Teach…," Harry didn't know how to finish the sentence. 

_ What should I say? Should I say I'm sorry again? Would that even be enough to keep him from crying? Knowing him, he'd probably just cry some more. What should I even do then? Should I comfort him? No, that'd be weird. Should I leave? I mean, the door isn't that far away. I could make it. Would that be rude? I don't know, but maybe if I left, he would stop crying...  _

But for whatever reason, Harry didn't move from his spot next to Louis on the bed. 

"Uh, Teach… is everything, like, okay?" 

"We could be stuck here for months, Harry," Louis whispered with hesitance, wiping away the silent tears that started to pool at the brim of his eyes and catch in his beautifully long eyelashes. "Months. Maybe even years, or decades like Mrs. Crane. And who knows, by that time, Mr. Abrahams would have already thrown us out, because let's face it, we have no right or reason to be here. I mean, for all we know, we could be living on the street, and I would be forced to become a beggar or a prostitute...or worse."

"Teach, I need you to hear this, but I would  _ never, ever _ let you become a prostitute," Harry said with a chuckle. He couldn't help but laugh at the thought. "I mean, you would make a terrible prostitute. And by terrible, I mean the worst. We would be dead in a week if we had to rely on your income."

Louis sniffled meekly. "You're not helping."

"Hey, I'm just trying to lighten the mood," Harry stated. Damn. Maybe he should have left the room when he had the chance. "Look, Teach, I know we don't trust each other, or even like one another, but…"

Harry didn't really know how to finish his thought. 

_ But what?  _

_...but you're not alone? _

_...but you can talk to me? _

_...but we can get through this? _

Anything that came to him sounded too sappy or too disgusting to even think about saying. All those years of playing Mad Libs as a child had failed him in the one moment he needed it most. He simply could not fill in the blank. 

Thankfully for him, Louis filled in the silence. 

"What if we never go home, Harry?"

"Don't think like that."

"Why? Do you have a plan for how to get home? Cause I don't. Not anymore."

"I'm sure there's some way to get home, Teach. It has to be possible. I mean, if we can travel here, there must be a way to travel back. Right?" Harry spoke in earnest. "Maybe we should try and find that woman you talked to, Mrs. Bird or whatever. I'm sure she must know something or someone that could help."

"Harry, you didn't talk with her. She's just like us, maybe even worse off, if you can imagine that. Believe me. She doesn't know _anything_. She's just as bad as you. She didn't even know a single fact about this time period. If she knew something, she would have told me, or at the very least, used it to help herself."

"Well, we can't all be know-it-alls like you, Teach," Harry moaned as he playfully poked Louis in his side. "But, I  _ do _ know  _ some _ things."

Seemingly unconvinced, Louis silently arched his brown in Harry's direction—challenging his assertion. "Yeah, like what?"

"I know like, like… uh," Harry chuckled as he tried long and hard to search within his brain for some semblance of historical information before he eventually cracked a smile, hunched his back, and began to imitate the old Mr. Abrahams—shaky voice and all. "Well, uh, I do know about "the rebel insurgents and their destiny"'

Harry burst into a fit of laughter at his—as he seemed to think—"spot-on" impression of the old man and what he had told them over dinner the night they arrived. Louis, however, did not join in on the laughter. Harry's impression seemingly did not cheer him up in the slightest. 

"Come on, that was funny, Teach. You have to admit it," Harry groaned once his laughter subsided far too many minutes later. 

Louis did not "admit it." 

He did not laugh nor even respond. He was seemingly far too lost in thought to do so. His blank, far off expression and furrowed brow told Harry as much. 

"Uh, Earth to Teach?" Harry spoke as he waved his hand back and forth in front of Louis' stoic and tear-stained face. 

"Destiny…"

"What?"

"Destiny… that's it," Louis softly mumbled. "Eureka."

"I'm sorry, what again?"

"Destiny is the answer, Harry. Destiny!" Louis exclaimed as he swiftly jumped up from the bed and began to pace back and forth across his room. "Just think about what Mrs. Crane said. We are all here because of one thing… destiny. You, me, her, and who knows how many others, are all here because of destiny. My God, Harry, how have I not thought about this before? I mean, the fact that she asked if I "chose" to come to this time means that some people  _ must _ have the option to. There have to be people who chose to come here as their destiny."

"Get to the point, Teach."

"Okay, well, if what she says is true and that being a time traveler is a thing that happens, which is crazy, and people just come to this time. I mean, what would be their first move? What would they think would be their destiny? If they knew what happens during this time, wouldn't they, you know, try to get in on the action? Like you said yourself, if there are other travelers, they probably aren't just chumming it up in some bar. They're probably on the upper floors."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Harry, that there probably are more people out there like us, ones who know more and have more control over the situation than Mrs. Crane. There has to be. And maybe, just maybe, one of them knows how to get us back home," Louis spoke animatedly, accentuating every word he said with the frantic movement of his hands. "The only problem is how to find them."

"As you said, they are probably on the upstairs levels of the tavern."

"Okay…," Louis spoke with pursed lips as he stopped dead in his tracks before Harry on the bed. "Don't take any offense to this Harry, but I don't think the freemasons would ever accept you, or me, into their lodge."  
"Major offense taken, Teach. Ouch."

"I did warn you," Louis said with a sigh. "Besides, I wouldn't be too offended because I know just the group of people that might know some information  _ and _ will probably accept us. And they are the exact type of people who  _ would _ be on those upper floors."

"Who?"

"The Sons of Liberty"

"You're serious? You're really serious?"

"Look, it might be a little more work than you are used to," Louis shot him a glare. "But I am serious about this. As far as I have read about them, I think that if we can get in with at least one of them, we could easily infiltrate our way into their club." 

"I don't know, Teach," Harry said with a groan. "That all seems so unnecessary. Why can't we just go up to the man in charge and say we want to join? That'd be a hell of a lot quicker and easier."

"I mean, you could do that, Harry...if you wanted them not to trust you," Louis spoke with a huff as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "The Sons of Liberty were a very secretive and anonymous underground group of men. Only those within the society, here or in the other colonies, knew who else was involved or where their meetings were held. So if you were to waltz up to one of them and know all their secrets while not being a member at the same time, that would be seen as very suspicious. Hell, you'd be lucky if you were to leave that situation unharmed."

"Ouch, okay, bad idea, forget I said anything," Harry drawled. "But what if I went to their liberty tree, pole-thing for a couple of days and like protested. Maybe that would get their attention, and one of them would bring me under their wing into the Sons. I think that could work."

"Or, before any of that could happen, a redcoat might find you and have you arrested, or worse punished for your open protests against the Crown."

Harry groaned. 

"Fine, have it your way, Teach. I guess I'm game to chat up some random guy or whatever. Just shoot me some names already before I get bored and change my mind."

"Well, at this point, there were dozens of men involved in the Boston branch of the society. There was the original Loyal Nine, Samuel Adams, Benjamin Edes, James Otis," Louis began to rattle names off of his fingers. "James Swan, Patrick Henry, John Hancock, Thomas Young, John Adams, Joseph Warren, John Fulton—"

"Wait, Joseph Warren?" Harry interjected. 

"Yeah?"

"Do you know if his brother was involved with the Sons too? John Warren?"

"Well, as far as I know, John Warren was not nearly as well known or as revolutionary as his brother, but yeah, he was involved with the Sons during this time," Louis asked, no doubt perplexed as to how Harry knew the name of an obscure historical figure off the top of his head. "Why do you ask?"

"Don't hold me to this, Teach, but think I might actually have a plan."


End file.
